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LOVE AND VENGEANCE 


op LITTLE VIOLA’S VICTORY 


A Story of Love and Romance in the 


South: also Society and tts Effects 


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Page 

MAIC LELUBAG MOTI a eolp ae irwtats shina ans waite eis clalina es a oie ia 3 
Bertram Too Poor, 

Retribution. 

Aywove Competition between Brothers. ca... 4055: 13 
Bertram’s Amazement. 

PPMOLTUALE HOC tre xtaeiias oe tana waste vse we ieee ciate 20 
Pretty Bessie Hartwell 

PRGUEOUICCH SASHA] cute cies waicle’s s'<lern ealeghe +12) 6 oie caine 32 
Arnold and Mona Wreak Vengeance, 

HO Mecuvonly as) ACQuaINtanCESey sees seen. Om 43 
Returns andi Finds Mothers Dead 2.49 tale le acess 49 
PSOSts L6G tte ere mirstin ees he ra erie ts claus Peele Maun ¢ 08 
Pree Gr VOUNC «tite s ss ohare hia cata aerdemee cie ele oa 59 
Mreg@iiawt horns: Deceltt sas cde nit ose scree elas otter 63 
Viola’s New Home Warning to Banker............ 68 
NWIDIAEAGODLCC me LINGE I CSCUC sate acre t soa ete astare.e ee 73 
Vidlawa rnold CampbeliSsPreveaes: sy u« encase nveean 79 
‘Bertram and Mona’s Marriage Announcement..... 87 
IM Oa eteOn SOleNCe ue ara aaah. clea hee t cle oasis Oe stary ere 94 
PECL EDIE WC) EREL Vea ULLOLCLEMass aterars (asi Sry aie ay igi dare are ates stai at ice aee 100 
WETS ROMULUS SOLOE Vis cin tus ciate stds oigreleets cit eltus) ¢ tetererey: 105 
DECS POI MATOMV LOLA ae assis wa ere siyhs Germans Sa ce are 111 
PET OI PUMLO, LEGCO D Oils susere wince ot elehallo inoue a si tereail cae 117 
BidenOU KNOW THIS LOVE Hisense cattenant ay aye sieeve cine 123 
PSU aly Su MISLA Ktirg cars ip cha wih te diecc Shee gene ots Sate © 127 
Burglars Break in on Mrs. Smith and Viola....... 131 
Viola Consents. “Arnold Deligbteds ss avery. sic at 136 
DOSS1G Gal Cus s seienis ee 6's rs th winse wien sa MRLC iia ASlate oe 140 
Arnold Attempts Bigamy. Wife Objects......... 145 
Withiain Pieadsfor Mercy. oc. «stray eda etc amis neta tes 150 
MUP TNC CE CLIT Ee rere ines ctatule a iets alts obovate eters seats 154 
PERCILBIN ORD VON preter he ra: aia, teats ars eis ea totals erent 159 
PIGRSIE LONSENCS  csatdsy e's s,s aes oidtta el « ek giulsya nie a ¢ 163 
Wold Dermurderesas Valiguio Deathivale scams ecic 176 
DOVES CRCORT ADE Wee piutticicls snes Nc yale ain Sie ale 8 oleh 177 


oe t © Fhe 
* 


GCHAPEER, T, 
A Social Event. 


In a stately mansion in a fashionable portion of 
one of our principal cities, a fete was at its height. 
Carriage after carriage was whirling up to the grand 
entrance depositing its occupants. The house was 
all ablaze with light. And the merry tinkle of silvery 
laughter was borne out on the summer air to passers- 
by, who involuntarily stopped to gaze at the gay 
scene. A beautiful night overhead. A pleasant night 
under foot. A silvery moon had just risen and was 
casting long shadows on the green turf at the side 
of the house, near which a fountain tinkled musically. 
Around the corner of Mrs. Warrington’s mansion 
a balmy breeze was blowing gently. While the song 
of a nightingale bird in a neighboring cedar tree all 
tended to make it a typical southern summer night 
in June. Take a peep on the interior. 

In a mansion on Pennsylvania avenue a fete is at its 
height. Carriage after carriage whirl up to the grand 
entrance. The house was all ablaze with light. And 
the merry voices of beautiful and superbly dressed 
ladies and gentlemen were borne out on the sum- 
mer’s air to passers-by, who involuntarily stopped 
to gaze at the gay scene. 

There was a long salon bedecked with all kinds of 
tropical plants. Lovely ladies moved to and fro 
and coquetted prettily with handsome gentlemen. 

At the door of the entry stands Mrs. Warrington, 
receiving her guests with customary grace. She is a 


4 


handsome woman about forty years of age and bore 
a smile and pleasant word for everyone. Her beauty, 
wealth and high birth all tend to make her one of the 
ringleaders of Washington society. 

Among the guests that she is engaged in welcom- 
ing was a tall, fashionably dressed gentleman. He 
stepped into an ante-room, and, after a moment, re- 
turned to Mrs. Warrington and asked nervously in a 
low tone: “Has Miss Hawthorne yet arrived?’ 
“Yes,” she replied. He turned on his heel and made 
his way with some difficulty through the crowd. 
Bertram Heathcourt, for that is his name, was about 
thirty years old and one of the handsomest men in 
Washington. His curly hair, that was admirably 
worn, brushed away from his high, intellectual brow; 
blue eyes and amber-hued mustache that half covered 
a firm, but expressive mouth; broad shoulders, mus- 
cular limbs and an upright bearing, made him a fine 
specimen of manly beauty. He was the only son of 
the late Col. Heathcourt, his mother ‘having died 
shortly after his birth, threw him on his own re- 
sources. He managed to get a first-class education, 
and, being an energetic young man, had taken to 
journalism, and consequently was editor of ‘The 
National Record.” 

While wending his way through the crowded salon 
he felt a fan tap him lightly on the shoulder. He 
turned with a look of pleasure in this eyes as he bowed 
low before a beautiful girl. She was superbly 
dressed in black velvet and diamonds ‘that suited to 
perfection her splendid brunette beauty. 

“T was just looking for you,” he said, and, with her 
hand laid gently in his arm, they were moving slowly 
along. 


5 


“The music is beautiful. Will you give me this 
waltz?” 

“Yes if you wish it,’”’ she said lightly. 

The next moment they were floating down the long 
salon to the time of the dreamy music. 

“Ah! That was delightful,’ he said, as the music 
suddenly ceased and he led her to the conservatory. 
“Mona, at last I ‘have the opportunity of relating and 
relieving my mind of a weight that it has carried 
for days and -weeks. “My darling,” he cried pas- 
sionately, “have you not seen that I.love you with all 
my soul? I know that I am not worthy to kiss the 
hem of your garment. But if you would only love me 
a little, I would make you so happy. You are not 
indifferent to me. Will you become my wife?” 

Her lovely face had slowly become paler and paler. 
Her lips had become compressed. 

He watched her in evident alarm. 

“Mona! Good heavens! Are you ill?” 

Recovering herself with a supreme effort, she was 
just about to reply when there was an interruption. 
A haughty woman arrived on the scene. 

One glance was enough to tell anyone that it was 
the mother of the girl. 

“Mona,” she said sharpy (when she saw the love- 
like attitude in which her companion was bending 
over her), “I have a severe headache, and I think I 
shall go home.” With a distant bow to the young 
man, she turned to leave the conservatory. 

With a sigh of relief the young lady rose and to- 
gether they all passed out. With gentlemanly cour- 
tesy he saw after their wraps and assisted them to 
their carriage. When he was assisting the young lady 
in he pressed her hand and whispered, “Tomorrow 


6 


I shall call for my answer.’’ He stepped back from 
the curb and the elegant equipage swung around 
and dashed down the street. He stood and watched 
it until it disappeared around the corner. “I wonder 
why she grew pale and trembled so. Surely she 
couldn’t have been angry at what I said,” he mut- 
tered, as he was ascending the steps. Torn by con- 
flicting hopes and fears lhe soon grew weary of the 
gay scene, and, bidding his hostess good-night, left 
the house. 


Bertram Too Poor. 


When Mrs. Hawthorne and her daughter reached 
home, the former requested the latter to come to her 
as she had something to say to her. Half divining 
what was to come. Mona followed with sullen silence. 
Mrs .Hawthorne motioned her daughter to a seat, 
and, standing before her, she asked in a harsh voice: 
“What was that man saying to you when [I arrived, 
as I believe, so opportunely ?” 

A deep blush was the only answer she received. 

“You do not speak! Answer me. Was he en- 
caged in some of his silly nonsense?” 

“He was making me an honest proposal,’ was 
answered haughtily. 

“And you dare listen to him?” exclaimed the 
mother, trembling with passion, and after all I have 
said to you on the subject, too. And when there is 
Col. Clayton with a princely fortune awaiting you. 
And you are ready to throw away yourself to a beg- 
garly editor who hasn’t enough to keep a woman of 
your extravagant tastes in pin money.” 

“But, mother, I love him dearly, and i 


7 


“A fig for love,” interrupted the mother harshly. 
“It is all silly nonsense that you will get the better of 
soon. There is no such thing as love when there is 
nothing on which to found it but grim poverty. 
Wealth first, love and everything else will follow.” 

“But, mother, Bertram will be rich some day. His 
business is good and he is energetic and he is sure 
to succeed.” 

“Yes, and be as old as the hills when he does suc- 
ceed,” retorted the mother. “Where will all your 
beauty be by that 'time?” . 

A little shudder passed over the girl, not unnoticed 
by the sharp eyes of the mother, and as she observed 
it she knew the right chord was struck. “You will be 
a pretty, faded, washed-out thing by that time,” she 
continued with a wicked leer. 

“While your friends who will forsake you as soon 
as you become poor, are riding, driving, or going to 
balls and attending operas, you will be at home nurs- 
ing dirty brats, scrubbing, washing or doing some- 
thing else equally disagreeable to ‘one of your fas- 
tidious taste. I would rather see vou dead than mar- 
ried to Bertram Heathcourt.” And after delivering 
this ‘stinging speech she dismissed her daughter with 
a haughty wave of the hand. She knew her daughter 
well enough and felt confident that her words had left 
a deep impression on her mind. So she smiled com- 
placently, went to bed and was soon sleeping sweetly 
and dreaming that she was a grand duchess with 
more silk, jewels and money than she could use. 

Not so. The words uttered by Mona’s mother had 
left a deep impression on her mind; one not so easily 
eradicated. 

Being the daughter of a selfish mercenary woman 


8 


of the world, brought up to consider the Almighty 
dollar above everything else that was noble, and who 
was used to making one dollar go as far as three, so 
that she might keep up impressions, it was but natural 
that the picture drawn by her mother was not very 
pleasing to her taste. 

Standing at the window she heard the noise of 
vehicles plying over the stone-paved street, coming 
from Mrs. Warrington’s ball, she thought with a 
shudder that all this would be denied her if married 
to Bertram Heathcourt. 

“T cannot give up wealth and luxury,” she cried 
excitedly. “I should die if I had to do it. Oh! 
Bertram, why are you not rich? I—I love you so, 
and we would be so happy together, only—only you 
are poor and I cannot be the wife of a poor man, I 
—cannot.” Throwing herself down by the side of 
her bed the proud and haughty woman gave herself 
up to the fierce battle of grief that was being waged 
within her. 

She lay there until the tolling of a neighboring 
clock belched forth the hour of two. Slowly rising 
she proceeded toward ther wardrobe. It was quite 
evident that the better instincts of her heart had 
been vanquished, there was a cold, hard expression 
in her black eyes, her full lips were drawn tightly 
together; her fair forehead was distorted by a black 
frown. “I will reject him,’ she muttered harshly, 
and in 'that decision she brought a world of trouble 
and heartaches to the door of more than one unsus- 
pecting soul. 


Retribution. 


Bertram Heathcourt arose early the next morning 
and, after partaking of a light breakfast, proceeded 


9 


Jeisurely down to the office. On arriving there he 
took up the morning paper and was glancing over it 
when there came a tap on the door of ‘the office. A 
messenger came in hastily and, asking if he ‘had the 
honor of standing before the editor, handed him the 
telegram. Wondering what it could mean he hastily 
tore it open and read the following: “Come imme- 
diately to Heathcourt Park, B—ville station. I am 
dying and wish to see you.” 

= Grs. 

“Richard Heathcourt.” 

Very much perplexed he rang for his assistant, 
and, after informing him of his intended departure, 
left the building. Hailing a passing cab he entered 
and was driven rapidly to the depot. Purchasing a 
ticket he seated ‘himself in the car and was soon on 
his way to B—ville. When he left the train at B—ville 
he found a carriage from the Park awaiting him. 
He was whirled swiftly along over the smooth road 
toward his destination. 

Heathcourt Park was a rare old place. Its huge 
tower and broad piazza that extended all the way 
around it. The wide gravel paths separating the 
green turf that extended out to the deep woods on 
the opposite side and down to the sleepy river in 
front, with great old cedars and elms under which 
were numerous rustic seats scatered here and there 
in picturesque confusion, all tend to make it a lovely 
country dwelling, and one of the finest estates in Vir- 
ginia. 

Bertram could not suppress a cry of admiration 
as he was whirled up to ‘the broad entrance. He 
was admitted by a servant in gorgeous livery, who 
conducted him to the sick chamber. 


10 


Several persons were in the room, they moved 
about with muffled tread and spoke in hushed whis- 
pers. Bertram took them to be nurses. 

On a bed, half covered in the coverlid, lay the sick 
man, his face pale and pinched, the lips purple, the 
eyes ‘had a vacant look. In spite of himself Bertram 
could not suppress a shudder as he gazed on the awful 
face. Nerving himself to his task he slowly advanced 
to the side of the bed, took one of the cold hands of 
the dying man in his, and said, in a low tone: “Sir— 
Mr. Heathcourt I have come. I am truly sorry sir, 
to see you so ill. I hope you will be better soon.” 

The sick man turned his head slowly upon the pil- 
low and let his eyes rest on the face of the young 
man. And into his own there sprang a look of terror 
mingled with remorse, as he said ‘huskily: 

“You sorry for me! Me! And I have done such 
a great wrong to you and yours.” Bertram looked at 
him in astonishment. He thought the old man was 
wandering in his mind. He turned to request one of 
the nurses to summon the physician, but the old man 
seemed instinctively to divine ‘his intention, for he 
caught him hastily by the hand and said: “It will 
do no good. I am dying now—dying. I have 
sinned, and sinned times without number against my 
God. Retribution has at last fallen on my guilty head 
and all that is left for me is atonement for my sins. 
He paused as if exhausted. Bertram stood quite 
still, but his face showed signs of conflicting emo- 
tions—surprise, doubt, perplexity. Presently the old 
man drew him down and whispered, “Tell them to go 
out, [ have something to say to you.” Bertram did 
his bidding. The nurses who had all this time been 
standing with open-mouthed amazement, left the 


iT 


¥oom rather reluctantly. When they passed out Ber- 
tram closed and locked the door, returned to the bed 
and waited in silence. 

“Prop me up,” said the old man, which was done, 
and the old man told a remarkable story, which was 
told with many pauses and gasps fer breath. The 
substance of which is as follows: 

“My father,” began the very sick man, “was a very 
rich man, and also a proud one—very proud. I had 
a brother that was two years my senior. When we 
were young we loved each other very dearly, but I 
soon began to develop traits of character and habits 
that he did not approve, and naturally he took me 
to task about them, and after he found out that I 
still persisted in them, he threatened to acquaint 
father of them. For this cause I began to find fault 
of him. 

About this time there lived in the village a beau- 
tiful girl, the daugher of a poor working man. She 
was the most beautiful creature you ever saw. Poort 
Doris! I fell desperately in love with her and finally 
asked her to become my wife, and she refused. Half 
blind with fury and unrequited love I demanded of 
her the reason why she would not become my wife, 
and she told me that she loved another. I told her by 
the right of my great love I ought to know the for- 
tunate gentleman. She then informed me that it was 
my brother. Fierce rage and hate sprang up in my 
heart against my innocent brother, and I determined 
to be revenged—to kill him. I went toward the 
wood and sat down under a tree called the “Old 
Elm,” developing my plan of revenge. Late that 
night I came ‘home and entered the house softly and 
crept up to hisroom. Fortune favored me; his door 


| iF 


was unlocked. I crept to his bed, drew back the 
curtains of the bed, and by the dim light of the lamp 
which was turned low, gazed long and earnestly into 


his face. It wore a peaceful smile, and the thought. 


entered my mind that possibly Doris and he had met 
and for all I knew to the contrary, exchanged confi- 
dences. The thought added fuel to the fire of my 
jealous wrath and almost maddened me. I raised my 
hand in which gleamed a sword, ‘a present from my 
father, and a moment later he would ‘have been in 
eternity, when the moon, which had previously been 
obscured by a cloud, bursted into the room with a 
flood of mellow light and shone on him. His hands 
were folded on his breast and between his fingers 
something white was shining. I looked more closely 
and saw that it was a letter. It might be from Doris 
Thorndyke, the woman we both love, thought I jeal- 
ously, and with jealous haste, but with due caution | 
managed to possess myself of it. By the light of the 
moon I read: 

My Own Fleming: 

You know that I could refuse you nothing. You 
are all the world to me. My love. My life. Yes, I 
will meet you by the “Old Elm,” and go with you to 
the city. Do you think it can be done? Oh, Fleming 
dear, suppose your father should know it, he would 
disinherit you for marrying the daughter of a poor 
working man, and clandestinely. He would never 
forgive you. Oh! Why am I not rich or why are you 
not poor? I would rather be your wife—yes, al- 
though you were a tiller of the soil—than the wife of 
any other man. 


Yours, 
Doris Thorndyke. 


13 


“And there it ended. So that is the extent his 
tove making had gone. She was to become his wife. 
i ground my teeth with rage, but suddenly a dark 
scheme entered my mind. I started guiltily and 
looked strangely about, and, stepping to the window, 
raised it softly to let the balmy air blow over my 
‘heated brow, ‘that I might think—think.” 


AO EE elt reel Le 
A Love Competition Between Brothers. 


The old man paused from sheer exhaustion. The 
young man sat with pale face and eyes dilated with 
horror; the pallor having been renewed since the 
mention of the name Fleming. A terrible suspicion 
had entered his mind, one that took ‘his breath away; 
that almost unmanned him. After a few moments’ 
pause the old man continued: 

“Directly a triumphant smile broke over my face. 
{T would let him marry her. I knew my father would 
disinherit him if he did, and I would be the only heir. 
{ would be the master of the Park—a thing which 
I had always dearly craved. 

I determined to kill two birds with one stone, 
rob ‘him of his birthright and be revenged on him for 
my disappointment. I closed the window, and re- 
turned softly to the side of the bed and replaced the 
note. Then, lowering the light, I left the room and 
retired. 

The next day passed wihout any unusual event. 
About seven o’clock in the evening I took up my 
position in a thicket near the “Old Elm” and waited 
events. 


t4 


f had not long to wait. A carriage came hurriedly 
up the road and turned into the wood, and after driv- 
ing a few paces, stopped. About half an hour later 
there was the sound of skirts and I saw Doris coming. 
She was attired in a dark suit with a heavy cloak, over 
her face I could see a veil. A moment later there 
was the sound of another person, and the next instant 
aman appeared. In spite of the heavy ulster which 
he wore pulled up to his chin and soft hat that was 
pulled down over his eyes, I recognized the upright 
bearing and princely carriage of my brother, Fleming. 
and I could scarcely keep from rushing out of my 
eover and slaying them both as I saw him take her in 
his arms, murmuring low, impassioned words of 
deathless love to her. 

I controlled myself with a mighty effort and, as 
they walked hurriedly over to the hack, entered, and 
were driven rapdly away. I left my hiding place, and 
as I walked home my heart was filled with triumph- 
ant exaltation. 

The next day my brother returned and I knew by 
the happy light in this eyes which the could not con- 
ceal, that he was the husband of Doris Thorndyke, 
and the knowledge almost drove me mad. 

“T asked him why he wasn’t home last night. 
Something in my voice made him look up quickly 
and give me a keen glance. And when he replied 
he had stayed in the city with one of his school fel- 
lows I smiled mockingly and turned my face that he 
might not see the triumphant look in my eyes. The 
next day I went to Washington and hired a detective, 
who ‘had little trouble in tracing Doris out. We 
found out she was staying in a pleasant little cottage 
in the suburbs of the city. After I had been home 


13 

about four days my brother suddenly announced his 
intention of going fishing for a week with some 
friends. My father readily gave his consent and 
my brother left early the next morning. Now was 
my time to strike. It was the hour for which I had 
so patiently waited. I told my father at breakfast 
that I should like to have a word with him in the 
library. He complied, and when he had lit a cigar I 
began my story. I told him how the village was 
ringing with the strange disappearance of a beau- 
tiful girl, how I had witnessed the meeting between 
her and my brother, and wound up by telling him 
where he would find him and her. 

My father’s face was terrible to see. He rang for 
a carriage and bade me prepare to accompany him. 
We were finally on our way and soon arrived in the 
city. Engaging a hack we were swiftly driven to our 
destination. 

We found Fleming and ‘his wife in the garden, 
with his arm around her waist, examining the flow- 
ers. But I need not tell you of that meeting. My 
father abused him, heaped up reproaches upon him, 
cursed him and wound up by forbidding him ever 
enter his house again, also informed him that all let- 
ters would be sent back unopened. I saw by the re- 
proachful look in his eyes that he knew I had betrayed 
him. We finally left them and when we had arrived 
home my father retired to his room, from which he 
never left. He never recovered from the shock, and 
soon after died. Then I ‘had things my own way. I 
went to Washington and engaged the same detec- 
tive to abduct Fleming’s wife. I would wring his 
heart as mine had been wrung. He should be made 
to feel as I had felt, I said. The detective did his 


16 


work well, and after I had ‘her in my power, I dis- 
patched a letter to him telling him that his darling 
wife had eloped with me, and by the time he received 
it we would be for out at sea. I knew that would 
throw him on the wrong scent. I simply had her 
placed in a private asylum, where she finally died 
of a broken heart. Poor Doris! Poor young thing! 
Previous to this occurrence a son had been born to 
them, and placing the child in care of friends Fleming 
went to Europe in search of his wife, and after a 
year of fruitless search returned to this country. He 
finally went into the banking business and for years 
did well. When the war broke out he enlisted at the 
call for arms and went out to fight and returned with 
well earned laurels. 

For twenty years he was known all over the South 
as Col. Fleming Heathcourt. He was your father, 
Bertram, and I am your uncle.” 


Bertram’s Amazement. 


The old man sank back on his pillow, completely 
exhausted. When he had utered those last terrible 
words, Bertram sprang to his feet pale as death. 

“You!” he gasped, “you, my uncle! Great heav- 
ens, I see it all now. That’s why my father never 
mentioned your name. That’s why his brow always 
darkened when my mother’s name was mentioned. 
And—my God! he died without knowing that she 
was true to him!—that she loved ‘him to the last!’ 
And, whirling around suddenly, he hissed: “You 
traitor ! You peace-breaker! You—you destroyer 
of a loving household. You—” 

The old man interrupted him with a feeble wave 


17 


of this hand, as he said huskily: “Bertram, I am 
dying.” 

“True, true!’ said Bertram, brought to his senses 
by the rebuke, and carried away by the intensity oi 
his emotion, he sat down and buried his face in his 
hands, he wept as only a strong man can weep, great 
heartrending sobs shaking him from head to foot. 

When the storm of emotion had spent itself the old 
man said feebly: 

“Bertram, I have sinned and sinned deeply. 1 
have wronged you and yours terribly. Can you ever 
forgive me?” 

Bertram looked at the old man on whom the death 
damp was swiftly gathering, and whose eyes were 
fast glazing, and a great pity sprang up in his heart 
for him. After ‘all it was the demon of jealousy that 
had taken complete possession of him. He pitied him 
and said earnestly: 

“T forgive you, indeed I do, as I hope to be for- 
given.” 

An almost immediate light of ‘happiness shone in 
the old man’s eyes and he turned on his pillow toward 
Bertram and died. 

The next day Mona Hawthorne was all in a flutter ; 
she could not stay in one place ten minutes at a time. 
She walked from room to room and then to the 
earden and then back to the house. 

The mother watched her for a while in perplexity. 
Then she seemed to arrive at a solution of the mys- 
tery. She thought that her daughter had ben think- 
ing the mater over and had decided to reject the 
“beggarly editor.” 

A surmise which, to say the least, was not very far 
from wrong, as the reader can testify. 


18 


Mona had just arisen from the piano when theré 
came a quick, sharp ring at the bell. Her ‘heart leaped 
ike a wild thing. The blood surged through her 
veins like electric fire. She heard someone enter 
the room and raising her drooping eyelids she en- 
countered the admiring gaze of Col. Philip Clayton. 
At that instant she almost hated the man. She had 
been hoping in spite of herself that it might be Ber- 
tram, until she had looked up and found that it was 
not Bertram. She did not know nor did she realize 
how much she did love him. She loved him with a 
love that was her doom. She shuddered as she real- 
ized what her future would be without him. 

Recovering herself with an effort, she calmly ex- 
tended her hand and motioned him to a seat. 

Afer a few commonplace remarks a painful silence 
followed. She watched him curiously. He fidgetted 
in ‘his chair, ever and anon pulling out a handker- 
chief and clearing ‘his throat. 

After he had done this about half a dozen times; 
she broke the silence. 

“We seem to be dull,’ she remarked with a ner- 
vous little laugh. The Colonel tried to smile, but 
made a rank failure of the attempt. 

The Colonel was very much affected by that frown 
that on entering the room he had seen come over 
her countenance. 

He wanted to declare himself but was afraid to do 
so. He did not know in which form he had better 
put it. Finally he said, in sheer desperation, ‘‘Miss 
Hawthorne, I came over to inform you that I love 
you—have loved you dearly for two years, and to ask 
if you will not accept of my hand and my heart. 

She had been watching him since he first came in 


16 
and she saw something in his face that told her he 
would speak about marrying, and she had been puz- 
zling her brain as to whether she should accept him 
now or wait until she had seen Bertram. If I accept 
him now, she argued, I will not have a chance to 
pledge myself to Bertram, and thus I fear I wil! 
show weakness in the interview with him. 

So she was about to accept the Colonel, when he 
seeing silence, repeated ‘his question. “Mona, dar- 
ling, won’t you be my wife?” “Yes, if vA wish it,” she 
replied quietly. 

The Colonel was overjoyed. It seemed to be toc 
zood to be true. The possibility that she had consent- 
ed to marry him for pecuniary reasons never for once 
entered ‘his mind. 

The Colonel was considered a very amiable man, 
and the catch of the season. The forty years which 
had passed over his head had left no visible effect 
about ‘him, beyond a few threads of silver in his hair 
and an iron-grey mustache, which gave him a dis- 
tinguished appearance. His firm, upright carriage, 
and military air made him quite a handsome man, 
and Mona would have considered herself a most for- 
tunate woman if she only loved him. But despite his 
amiability, there was, at times, a cold glitter in his 
steel grey eyes and a curve to his well formed lips 
that showed that he could also be as hard and as 
cruel as fate, when the necessity presented itself. 

Her mother went into hysterics when Mona told 
her of the engagement. She hugged and kissed her 
with a vehemence that nearly took away her breath. 

“Oh! my daughter, my darling child,” she ex- 
claimed in great excitement. “You don’t know— 
cannot realize how you have pleased me. It is the 


20 


dearest wish of my heart to see you married to a nian 
of wealth and influence, so that we can take our 
praper position in society.” And, sitting back in the 
velvet cushions of ‘her easy chair, she smiled compla- 
cently. 

Selfish woman. Her only aim, her only ambition 
was money. She would have betrayed her soul for 
the filthy lucre. She was now ready to sell her 
daughter to a man she did not love simply because 
it would be the means of securing her position in 
society. 

That night, as she lay on her “virtuous couch,” 
nappy, light-hearted, no thought of the terrible tum- 
ble this match was to make, entered her mind. 


CHAPTER III. 
A Mortal Foe. 


It was a lovely afternoon about four days after the 
events narrated in previous pages that Mona, attired 
in her pretty cream wrapper, with costly lace around 
neck and sleeves, and a pink band of costly silk 
around her waist, was sitting in her private parlor, 
drawling over the latest book of fiction, when there 
came a timid tap to her door. 

In answer to her summons the door was pushed 
open in a hesitating way and a young girl between 
eighteen and twenty entered. 

To say that she was pretty would give a very 
poor estimate of her charms. 

Viola Dunkirk was poor, but surely an American 
beauty, and Nature’s hands did well its work. Beau- 


pie 


tiful as a poet’s dream, lovely as a sylph, with a sheen 
of golden hair that covered her well shaped head like 
athalo of light. Clear milk white complexion that 
gave token of every thought by little rushes of pink 
that ever and anon chased each other from brow to 
chin and from cheek to cheek. She was of that 
strange mixture of golden hair and dark eyes over 
which poets rave and artists go into ecstasies, and 
that which make a blonde beauty so unusually at- 
tractive. Her beautiful dark eyes shaded by long 
curling lashes, with such a sweet expression to her 
face, made her an object of envy to the fashion- 
able belles for whom she worked. 

“I have come,” she said hesitatingly, in a sweet, 
musical voice, “to bring that lace you ordered last 
week.” And she cast a pleading glance at Mona from 
the depths of her beautiful dark eyes. 

“Very well. I will inspect them,” replied the 
haughty voice of Mona. 

Viola was a lace-maker. Her mother was a feeble 
woman, and ‘her father, having died a few years ago, 
the support of her remaining parent fell on her young 
shoulders. They were very poor. The father was 
at one time well to do, but by the visitation of misfor- 
tune he had lost all, caused by some rash business 
venture. Viola, who had previously learned fancy 
work at school, managed to keep the wolf from the 
door by the use of ‘ther nimble fingers. 

Mona had never liked the young girl. Her fresh 
blonde loveliness was in such strong contrast with 
her brunette charms that she could not but see the 
difference herself, and she was jealous of Viola’s 
beauty. She always seized every opportunity to 
humiliate the poor girl. 


ZZ 


Viola put down the rich lace carefully on the 
table, and waited “My lady’s” pleasure. Mona, after 
reading about fifteen minutes longer, turned to the 
girl, who had been standing all the while, and asked 
her to bring the lace to her, which she did. 

Miss Hawthorne looked it over carelessly and, with 
a scornful toss of the head, said, “it doesn’t matter 
much anyhow; I suppose you've been in the business 
fong enough to know what is required, and if you 
don’t you get your pay just the same, so it is, I 
suppose, a matter of indifference to you.” Having 
delivered this brief, cutting oration, she gave it a toss 
that sent it to the opposite side of the table. 

The face of the girl flushed, and there were tears 
glistening in her dark eyes as she picked up the lace, 
and laying it once more on the table, said, “Indeed, 
Miss Mona, I do care. I wish you would examine the 
work and if it does not suit you, you know well what 
to do, and I will know what ts required. I take a pride 
in my work. For it is all I have to support my wid- 
owed mother.” 

The sadness in the girl’s voice as she uttered these 
last words somewhat modified Mona and she said 
more gently, as she took her purse and paid for the 
work, ‘Very well, it will suit, I think. You've always 
done your work well, and I presume there is no rea- 
son why you should change at this late day.” And 
with a wave of the hand she was dismissed. 


** x “* x * x xk 
The funeral was over, and the will had been read. 


It was simple. Beyond a few legacies, everything 
went to Bertram Heathcourt. He suddenly found 


23 


himself a rich man—a millionaire, with more money 
than he knew what to do with. He finished transact- 
ing business and started for the city to tell Mona 
the news. He arrived in Washington late in the 
aiternoon, and as Mona did not live far he set out 
on foot. On reaching the house he stepped into the 
vestibule, gave a quick imperative ring and handed 
his card to the servant who came in answer to his 
ring. 

“Not at home, sir,” said he, curtly. At that mo- 
ment Mona’s voice reached his ears. She was singing 
in a clear musical voice, “Absence.” 

“But, man,” said Bertram sharply, “I hear her 
voice and know she is at home.” 

“Not at home to YOU, sir,” replied the servant. 
And it was evident that he had been previously in- 
structed. 

“Carry her my card immediately, and tell her I 
wish to see her,” said Bertram sternly. 

At that moment a voice which he recognized as 
Mrs. Hawthorne’s, said: 

“Who is it, Johnson?” 

“It's Mr. Heathcourt, ma’am.” 

“What does the fellow want?” she asked sharply. 

*““He wishes to see Miss Hawthorne, ma’am.”’ 

“She is not at home to him,” she answered shortly. 

Bertram could scarcely believe the evidence of his 
own ears. 

He turned away, but had gone only a few steps 
when he was overwhelmed by thought. 

“Not at home” to him? What did it mean? 

Then, like a flash, the remembrance of the little 
occurrence on the night of the ball came to him. 

He could see it all now. He thought that he had 


24 


solved the problem. Her mother must have suspect- 
ed that he was proposing the night of the ball, and 
supposing him to be a poor man, did not want any 
alliance between her daughter and a poor editor to 
continue any longer. 

It did not occur to him that Mona did not wish to 
see him. He had seen that in ther eyes when she 
looked at him that was different from that bestowed 
on any one else. He thought it simply the maneuver 
of a worldly woman. 

‘“T must see her once more, if only for a moment,” 
he muttered as he retraced his steps from the prem- 
ises as far as the corner, and stopped as if in dismay. 


“T will do it,” he said after a moment, and, taking 
out a notebook, he tore a leaf and wrote a few lines. 


Calling a small boy who was passing and giving him 
a coin, he bade him carry it to the address marked 
thereon and wait for an answer. “Ask for Miss 
Mona, and give it to no one else,” ‘he said. The boy 
darted on his errand. 

Ten minutes passed and then he saw the boy come 
out of the gate, and the next moment he had the 
answer in hand, and was taking in its contents. 

What ‘he read therein seemed to be a deathblow to 
his hopes. 

It was this: 


“Mr. Heathcourt. 

“Sir—I cannot make it convenient to see you. 
What my mother did to-day in refusing you admis- 
sion, she did with my fullest acquiescence. While I 
am writing this I will take advantage of the oppor- 
tunity to refer to the question you asked some nights 
since, and say that I cannot comply with your re- 


25 


quest, for no other reason than that I am the be- 
trothed wife of another—Col. Philip Clayton. 

“What my feelings are concerning the matter it 
is not necessary to state. In the future I prefer that 
we may meet simply as acquaintances. It will save 
us both unnecessary pain, and oblige, 

“Mona Hawthorne.” 


He turned very white as he read it, and crushing 
the leter in his hand ‘he turned on his heels, and with 
a scornful smile on his handsome face, walked rapidly 
down the street. 

“So that’s the girl ?ve been wasting my time on— 
a contemptuous, mercenary coquette. I thought she 
was the embodiment of everything that was good, 
noble, generous and unselfish,’ he muttered to him- 
self contemptuously, grinding his teeth in chagrin. 

How long he had been walking he never knew, 
nor which way, until he heard a shrill scream, and, 
turning, saw a young girl struggling in the arms of 
aman. It made the blood boil in the veins of Ber- 
tram as ‘he saw her making frantic attempts to re- 
lease herself. He flew to her rescue and, with one 
well directed blow from his muscular arm, the vil- 
lain was felled to the ground. 

Turning to the young girl, he said: 

“T hope you are not hurt. I don’t think the scoun- 
drel will molest you again.” 

“Oh, sir! I thank you, so much! Mother is 
sick and I was just returning from the doctor’s when 
I met this man and he thought to take advantage of 
the growing darkness to insult me.” 

“He will not trouble you more. I have settled 
him. Allow me to see you in safety to your hom:,”’ 


26 


And, with her little fluttering hand in his arm, they 
moved away. 

The discomfited villain deliberately rose, brushed 
the dirt from his clothes, shaking his clenched fist 
at the retreating figures, hissed: 

“T will repay that blow with interest. Curse you, 
[I hold the trump card. I know you, Bert’ Heath- 
court, and I’ll make you regret the day you ever saw 
Arnold Campbell. And you, too, Viola Dunkirk. 
You shall not escape me.” 

And, being dogmatic in the foregoing statements, 
turned and vanished in the gathering darkness, and 
the day came iii which he kept his word. 


Pretty Bessie Hartwell. 


About a year previous to the ending of the fore- 
going chapter, there lived in a quiet portion of the 
Capital an old merchant by the name of Archibald 
Hartwell, his wife and daughter. 

The head of the family was a pompous individual 
with a bald head, keen gray eyes and thin lips, that 
were Imost invariably compressed in a manner that 
was very suggestive of an iron will. 

His better half was a thin, delicate woman, with a 
sweet face, and in spite of furrows on her forehead 
and lines under her brown eyes, she still retained the 
remnants of a once beautiful face. 

The daughter is just the image of what the mother 
once was. A fair complexion, with red cheeks that 
rivaled the heart of the blush rose. 

Brown eyes and hair, a sweet little mouth that suc- 
cessfully concealed two rows of pearly white teeth. 
Bessie Hartwell was a trifle romantic. And so it 
happened that when young and handsome men came 


27 


to pay court to her, in spite of the opposition by the 
father, and the appeals of the mother, she, having be- 
come affectionately attached to one of ‘ther admirers 
married. The father swore that he would disinherit 
her. But that had no material effect on Bessie. She 
loved ‘her young husband, and for six whole months 
she was extremely happy. 

Arnold Campbell was a handsome man, good bear- 
ing with dark hair and eyes, but the sinister lines 
about the corners of his mouth were effectually con- 
cealed beneath his long, drooping, black mustache. 
So that the innocent girl who was caught in his toils 
had nothing to warn her of the character of the man 
to whom she was joined for life. 

When Arnold Campbell came from heaven knows 
where to Washington, the city was ringing with the 
praises of old Hartwell’s beautiful and accomplished 
heiress. So he made up his mind to win her and ‘her 
money bags for his own. 

But the old man took objections. He was some- 
what suspicious of him. Being a stranger and having 
nothing to recommend him but his handsome face, 
the old man swore that lhe was not good enough for 
his daughter. 

He had a husband picked out for her. 

Kent Howard was not handsome, but was honest 
and true as the day is long. He loved Bessie with 
a pure and unselfish love. She knew that he loved 
her, but she said she could never love him. It hap- 
pened one night that he had to go into a disreputable 
portion of the city. As he passed by a gambling hell 
the door was opened and a man, held by three or 
four others, was fired out on the pavement. He 
arose bruised and bleeding, and, looking around, his 


28 


glance fellon Kent. He gave a start of recognition, 
and, turning, fled down the street as fast as his legs 
could carry him, but not before Kent had recognized 
the face and form of Arnold Campbell. 

The next day he went to Bessie’s, and, having 
heard of her infatuation for the young man, tried to 
dissuade her from such a rash step as marrying him, 
telling ‘her of the occurrence of the previous night. 
She told him he was just giving advice for selfish 
motives—self-interest, as she called it. And wound 
up by telling him never to speak to her again. 

Sad and disheartened Kent left her, and a few 
days later when he heard she ‘had married ‘him against 
the opposition of her parents, he Saye suddenly 
to try his fortune in Australia. 


* ok * *K *K *K * 


In the dining room of a cozy little cottage in the 
suburbs of the city, sat Bessie Campbell. On a table 
in the centre of the room was a neat set of tea dishes. 
A pot of tea and coffee is steaming on the heater in 
the kitchen and ever and anon she stirred the fire 
with housewifely precision. 

“He is rather late to-night,’ she murmured anxi- 
ously. “I wonder what can be keeping 

She paused, because she had just caught the sound 
of his well known steps on the pavement without. 

‘‘Ah! there he comes,” she said gladly. 

Directly ‘he entered, his face dark as a thunder- 
cloud. She went up to him timidly (for of late she 
had often noticed just such a frown as this on his 
face) and putting her arms about his neck, tried to 
kiss 1t away. 


29 


“You are not looking pleased to-night, Arny, dear. 
Why, Arnold, what is the matter?” 

For he had cast her roughly from him, and there 
was a look on his face that made her shiver with a 
foreboding of coming trouble. 

“What is the matter, Arnold? Oh, for pity sake 
don’t look at me like that, you frighten me. What 
have I done?” she asked piteously. 

“What have you done?” he echoed harshly. ‘What 
have you done? Shall I tell you. You have been 
the cause of all my blighted prospects. I might have 
been the husband of the finest and most well bred lady 
in the land, had you not crossed my path with your 
pretty face, and infatuated me.” 

White as death she cowered from that angry face, 
and trembling like an aspen, as ‘the continued: “Now, 
I am tired of you. Yes, you may as well start. Iam 
tired of you and we must part this nig‘ht—aye, this 
hour, forever.” 

The hopeless misery and despair would have 
touched the heart of a fiend, but his hatred for her 
blinded him to her sufferings. 

“Arnold, why did you marry me, if you did not 
love me?” she asked piteously. “Oh, Arnold!” and 
her voice was like the last wail of a lost spirit. 

“Why did I marry you? Ha, ha! Why did I 
marry you.” Silence followed for a moment. The 
laugh which had just ceased was one which made her 
vlood run icy cold in her veins. “Why, indeed? Be- 
cause I thought your old duffer of a father would 
finally forgive you and take his children (with a sneer) 
to his heart, and I would obtain the money bags that 
I had risked so much to obtain, but I ‘have failed in 
my expectations. So I will have to make a change 


30 


in life. I will go to pastures new, where a man of my 
beauty can make life a success. 

“To be truthful, Bessie, I am in love with a pretty 
-damsel—very pretty,” he continued, very candidly, 
“and I don’t want any encumbrance in the shape of a 
wife, you understand.” 

And he laughed pleasantly, unmindful of the fact 
that a heart was breaking. 

Bessie had fallen into a seat and sat looking into 
the fire with eyes as black as night from suppressed 
excitement. Suddenly she raised her head and asked 
him in a voice that was calm, “At least you will let 
me have my marriage certificate—all in the world | 
have that will bind me to the old days.” 

A wicked 'tthhought shot through his subtle brain 
like light and he said, after remaining as if in deep 
thought: | 

“Yes, I will let you have it, but unfortunately it is 
in my other coat pocket at the club room. I lost 
heavily to-night. That is why Iforgotit. At any 
rate you can have it. Meet me to-morrow night at 
ten o’clock at the old wharf, and you shall have it.” 

“Lost theavily !” 

Then he was a gambler. This man whom she 
thought was the embodiment of everything that was 
noble and grand. And she had wronged, cruelly 
wronged poor Kent Howard. And he had loved 
her: 

After a short silence Arnold said: 

“T am glad to see you taking the matter so philo- 
sophically. You are still beautiful and you may yet 
make a great match and marry some wealthy old 
dog.” 

And, seeing the horror depicted on her face, at the 


31 


idea of marrying one man while she had a husband 
living, he laughed a low, mocking laugh, and just 
then Bessie looked up into his eyes and cried piti- 
fully: 


Under thy protection, Arnold, 

Oh! let me live? Let me be thine own. 
Growing to thee more utterly, 

Unbearing and upborne, till outward things 
Are only as they share in thee a part! 

Look kindly on me, let me love thee more. 
Bless me from the deep fullness of thy heart; 
So that my love in its right strength may rise, 
And nevermore pine, shrink and thrill. 

Oh, love me, Arnold! Will’st thou love me still?” 


Arnold then opened the door and vanished. 

Alone! friendless! penniless! Not one friend in all 
the world to whom she could confide her troubles. 

These were the thoughts that rushed through Bes- 
sie’s mind and then all her pent-up grief burst forth 
in a flood of glorious tears, and, throwing ‘herself face 
downward before the fire she wept until she was com- 
pletely exhausted. 

When she arose the fire had died out and the faint 
light shining in the window told her that day was 
breaking. 

She arose and, arranging her disheveled hair, put 
on a street dress, and giving one last look around the 
place where she had known such supreme happiness, 
and oh, such misery! she slowly wended her way into 
the quiet dawn of the early morning. 


32 
CHAP TEREIV. 


Betrothed Casually. 


When Betram Heathcourt accompanied Viola to 
her humble little home, a litle thrill ran through every 
fibre of ‘his being as she turned ‘her innocent dark 
eyes on him in bidding her good night. He could 
not understand the interest he had suddenly taken in 
a strange girl. He called the next day to inquire after 
the health of her mother. Every morning on going 
out on the piazza Viola would find a beautiful bou- 
quet of fresh violets with her name attached to it. 
So often did they come that she ‘had come to look for 
them regularly. But she would not acknowledge 
even to herself, that she knew from whom they came 
—that they came from the handsome young stranger 
whose blue eyes were always before her. 

Every day Bertram could be seen at the cottage 
ostensibly to inquire after the invalid, but in fact to 
be in company with Viola, who. had taken complete 
possession of his heart. 

Yes, Bertram Heathcourt loved the girl with the 
strong, passionate love that comes to a man’s heart 
but once in a life time, and beside which his infatua- 
tion for Mona had vanished into insignificance. She 
had taken complete possession of him. His every 
heart throb, every pulse beat was for her and her 
alone. Before he had known ther a week he 
realized that she was the one woman in all the world 
for him. 

He was surprised at the intensity of his love. 

“What thas become of my love for Mona?” he 
asked himself in dismay. “Can a man transfer his 


23 


affections whenever he wishes, and so easily too?” 

No, Bertram, he cannot. But when a man loves 
he generally loves something that is good, noble and 
lovable, about the object of his love. And when ali 
that is good, noble and lovable about the object 
dies, why, naturally, his love dies with it. 

So it was with Bertram, he loved, or thought he 
loved Mona, for her nobility of nature, ‘her upright- 
ness of character and unselfishness. 

And when he found that those virtues had ceased 
to exist his infatuation died, and he found that his 
every thought belonged to another. 

And Viola? Well, she hardly knew her own heart. 
She could not understand this sweet, new happiness 
that had recently come into her life, that made the 
earth seem brighter, and her pleased with every thing 
init. She had caught herself more than once watch- 
ing impatiently for his coming, and blushed a rosy 
red, as she realized what she was doing. 

“Pshaw! What right have I—a poor lacemaker— 
to think of the rich and handsome Mr. Heathcourt of 
Heathcourt Park. 

“He only comes here to inquire after mother be- 
cause he is kind and good, and likes to please. So I 
will not think of him any more.” 

But she did think of him again—times without 
number. 

She could not cease to do so. Every way she 
turned, his frank blue eyes rose up before her. His 
musical voice rang in her ears. She tried to shake 
off the strange feeling, but could not. Dimly she 
began ‘to realize that she had given her heart to him 
—that her heart had left her, irrevocably left her. 

One afternoon she was standing on the stoop 


34 


watching the beautiful sunset. Her face wore a sweet, 
pensive expression. And she murmured over and 
over again: 

“Bertram, Bertram. I wonder wha't he is doing 
now. I wonder what he is thinking of now. Bertram, 
I wonder if ‘he knows ‘how completely he has taken 
possession of my life. He is my world. I love him. 
[ love you Bertram, my darling. Oh, God! how | 
love you.” 

“Then be my wife,” whispered a low musical voice 
in her ear, as she was embraced passionately to the 
broad bosom of Bertram Heathcourt. 

She had unconsciously been uttering her thoughts 
aloud, and she failed to hear the light steps of Ber- 
tram as he came quick ly up the green walk and found 
out her little secret. 

She lifted her eyes with a startled, frightened 
glance at his face as she lay close to ‘his throbbing 
heart. 

Love her! a poor working girl, and he a cultured 
man of fortune. She was speechless, terrified. She 
could have been satisfied to love ‘him without any re- 
turn, and would have been happy in 'the loving. She 
could scarcely believe her senses, 

“Surely you must have seen, Viola, how completely 
my life is wrapped up in you,” continued the low 
voice, in impassioned tones that thrilled her to her 
heart’s core. 

“Without you-—-ah, God would not be so cruel as 
to separate us—my life would be a blank. Speak to 
me, dear. Will you be my wife?” 

“Your wife!” she gasped, breaking away from him 
and attempting to flee, but he caught her fluttering 
little hand and held it tighly. 


35 


“Your wife, and I—I a poor working girl! And 
you 8 

“Yes! And you the only woman in the world for 
mal” 

“You love me, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” she said, very softly, “but—” 

“Then nothing shall ever separate us.” 


*K *K *K ** * K * 


There was to be a grand opera at The Criterion 
Theatre. Mona and her mother had procured tickets 
The ttheatre was crowded from pit to dome. Mona 
and her mother, escorted by Col. Clayton, occupied 
one of the boxes, and had in full view the play. 

Mona looked lovely in a black silk, with rich black 
lace and diamonds on her shapely wrist, in her hair, 
and a costly opera shawl thrown carelessly around her 
shoulders. | 

Col. Clayton felt his heart swell with all a lover's 
pride, as he saw the admiration she had evinced. 

At the end of the third act, a few acquaintances 
made their way into the hox, and they all began chat- 
ting gayly. 

Someone casually mentioned the name of Heath- 
court and ‘Mona felt her heart give a heavy bump, 
continuing rapidly, and in spite of herself, her cheek 
crimsoned, 

“Speaking of Heathcourt,’ remarked one young 
man with a drawl, “Edgar! the is a lucky fellow. 
Have you heard the news?” 

“News?” echoed some one else. ‘No, let us hear 
pe 


“Oh, it is just like a novel. Some old uncle or 


36 


cousin whom he had never heard about before, had 
‘lone his father a great wrong when young, and in 
order to atone has left Bertram his wealth and one of 
the finest estates in w 

“Hello! By Jove! What is the matter with Mrs. 
Clayton? Mona? She is fainting.” 

It was indeed true. Mona had ‘heard those terrible 
words, and the lights began whirling around, and 
there was a dull roaring in her ears, and without a 
word of warning she had fainted, and would have 
fallen had not Col. Clayton put out his arm and saved 
her. 

Mrs. Heathcourt closed the curtains quickly, for of 
all things she dreaded this scene was the worst, and, 
hastening over to her daughter she bathed ther face 
in eau de cologne, and directly she revived. 

“Rouse yourself,” she hissed fiercely, giving her 
a vicious pinch. “Do you want to lose all? Re- 
member how much is at stake.” . 

With a mighty effort she recovered her self-pos- 
session and said, with a ghastly attempt at a smile: 
“Tt is nothing only—only the heat is so oppressive. 
I think,’ she continued, turning to Col. Clayton, 
“that I will go home. It is so very hot.” 

He complied in moody silence, for a certain sus- 
picion had come into his mind. | 

“Why did she faint at the mentioning of his name? 
He remembered the day when she had consented to 
be his wife, how carelessly she had consented, and 
also that look she had. given him when he first en- 
tered the room. 

“Can it be possible that she married me for my 
money? Oh, perish the thought. I would take my 
life on her honor. But why did she faint at the men- 


oF 


tion of his name.” The day came when he knew 
why she fainted, only too well, and he cursed the 
day he had ever seen her. 


Arnold and Mona Wreak Vengeance. 


The whole city was ringing with the news of the 
impending marriage of the handsome young million- 
aire to the daughter of one of the poorest, but who 
was once one of Washington’s most respected citi- 
zens. It was discussed at the table, in the clubs, and 
at all the social gatherings. 

There are two persons the news had a very seri- 
ous effect upon. Arnold Campbell heard it with all 
the chagrin and rage of a wicked man who sees his 
victim escaping from his clutches. 

Mona heard it with the bitterness of death in her 
heart, and she realized that she had lost all that was 
best and brightest of her youth—her love. She also 
realized how happy she could have been with Ber- 
tram if she had not been such a fool. 

That the very girl she hated and whom she had 
feared as a rival had won the love of the man whe 


was all the world to her, increased her hatred ten- 
fold. 


That night at ten o’clock Bessie appeared at the 
wharf, the place agreed upon, to obtain her marriage 
certificate. She had a haggard, careworn look about 
her which was pitiful to see. She walked slowly and 
feebly to the wharf and glanced around to see if her 
husband ‘had put in an appearance. He had not yet 


38 


come, and Bessie set herself to the task of waiting. 
She stood up by one of the huge posts used to make 
the boats fast, and gave herself up to deep thought. 
How long she stood there she never knew. But a 
rustling sound reached her ears, and, turning quickly 
she had just time to give one piercing shriek, when 
a heavy blow struck her on the temple and she top- 
pled over. There was a sudden splash and the waters 
closed over Bessie Campbell. 

At the same time there came a hollow groan to 
the ear of the would-be assassin, and, dropping his 
instrument of death, he turned and flew down the 
road as if pursued by seven devils. 

“It was a terrible thing to do,” he muttered, when 
he had stopped to rest. “But it is better, for she was 
in my way. And I have sworn to possess Viola Dun- 
kirk. She shall be mine,” the continued fiercely. ‘All 
the opposition on earth shall not come between she 
and me.” 

“And there was no chance for me to do so while 
Bessie was alive. 

“Uugh!” with a shudder. “How she did scream,” 
he thought. “I would not like to undertake the job 
again.” And he began feeling ‘his pockets for his 
handkerchief, for great beads ‘of perspiration had 
broken out over his face. 

Suddenly he stopped short, pale as death, and, 
began feeling more hastily in his pockets in a nervous 
manner. 

“Tt’s gone,” he gasped hoarsely, ‘and they will 
find it in the morning, and it will be all up with me 
when the body is found. And—great heaven !—the 
certificate was wrapped up in it. And then the hounds 
of the law will ‘have a clew as tio the motive for the 


39 


deed. And—and I cannot go back to look for it. 
That voice—that voice—I wonder—. Fool! fool 
that I was to bring it with me. I might have known 
that would be my luck.” 

The baffled villain beat his forehead and gnashed 
his teeth in a paroxysm of baffled rage. 

Bessie had not been knocked senseless, her turning 
so opportunely, and the blinding flash of the light- 
ning had made the blow less effective than it would 
have been under different circumstances. 

As soon as she struck the water it ‘had a revivify- 
ing effect upon her, and, being a good swimmer, she 
struck out boldly for the wharf. 

Just as she was clinging to the wharf for dear life 
there came a hurrying of feet upon the pier, and 
half dead with fatigue and fright she still clung to 
one of the pier posts. There was another vivid flash 
of lightning, and by the light of it she saw that it was 
a negro bending over the side of the pier looking 
anxiously at the place where she had struck the 
water. 

She felt her strength failing her, and when she 
saw it was not her husband she called in a weak voice 
for help. 

“Bress de Lord,” said a voice, “she is alive. Hold 
on tight, dearie, and youse’ll be all right in a minnit.” 
And the next moment she was safe on the pier. 

Then all her strength seemed to fail her, and she 
sank into unconsciousness. 

The old colored man, looking around for some- 
thing to bathe her face, as he did not have a hand- 
kerchief, saw by the dim lig‘ht of the moon, which had 
been previously hidden by clouds, something white a 
little distance away. 


40 


He stooped and picked it up, and saw that it was 
a handkerchief. 

“Umph! what’s dis?’ he muttered as he felt some- 
thing hard on the inside. “T’ll just stick it in my 
pocket an’ lave missus face and carry ‘ther home 
to de ole ’oman an’ in de mornin’ she kin see wot it 
is. Spec’s its a letter some ob de white folks lost 
to-day, an’ if? tis, I can gib it to ’em in de mornin.” 
And with this he went to bathing Bessie’s face, and 
chafing her hands, and, as she didn’t come around he 
stooped and took her in his strong arms and set out 
for his own little cabin, which he reached in a very 
short time. 

Old Steve Jenkins, an old colored man who had 
lived with his wife in Washington for years, notwith- 
standing the blackness of his skin, had as good and 
true a heart as ever beat in human breast. 

He had been standing in his cabin door, looking 
at the threatenening clouds, and considering the ad- 
visibility of going to an all night camp meeting about 
three miles distance, the voices of the attendants at 
which meeting was borne to him on the summer still- 
ness, when, chancing to look around, he saw the 
figure of a woman plodding in the direction of the 
plier. 

His cabin door was open, and the light from a wax 
candle was streaming out across the road, which af- 
forded him a good view of her as she went on her 
way. It was such an unusual thing to see, and several 
persons ‘having been found drowned lately, his sus- 
picions were aroused. He thought the woman con- 
templated suicide. So he determined to be on the 
watch and prevent such an act, if possible. 

So he walked along in the path behind, and saw 


Al 


her make her way to the pier, and, after glancing 
around as if in search of some one, lean against a 
post in an attitude of deep thought. Steve took up 
his position in one of the empty freight houses and 
watched her curiously. 

After the lapse of half an hour ‘the was surprised 
to see a man come quickly on the pier, and, after 
glancing around, started softly toward the silent 
figure. 

He began to think them lovers, and was just fixing 
to retrace his steps when he saw the man raise his 
hand that had something in it that resembled a 
“black jack” or “billy.” As soon as he realized the 
intention of the man he stopped, as if rooted to the 
spot. Being stricken with horror he could not re- 
press a groan when that blow was struck. Hence 
Arnold’s hasty flight. 

When it was time to keep his appointment 
with Bessie he took his certificate of marriage and, 
wrapping it in his handkerchief, he put it in his 
pocket. 

His object in doing this was to present it to her 
in case he should find her on the alert, and when she 
would reach out her hand eagerly to take it he would 
fell her to the ground. 

So, arming ‘himself with a billy, he set out, with 
the result known. He went to a hotel, engaging a 
room and retired. But that last scream kept ringing 
continually in his ears, and the fear that the lost 
certificate would fall into hands he did not desire it 
should, would not let him sleep until very late, when 
he fell into a deep slumber and slept far into the 
morning. 

When Steve reached home he knocked on the door 


42 


and, seeing his curious burden, his wife uttered a cry 
of dismay. 

“Sakes alive! Mercy on us! Wot is dat-ar you 
got, Stebe?’ 

“Just move an’ let me come in, an’ see wot you can 
do fur her while I make a fire an’ heat up de room, 
an’ den I'll told you all ’bout it.” And depositing 
his burden tenderly on a well worn lounge, he soon 
had a bright fire burning. The wife sat chafing Bes- 
sie’s hands and bathing her face. Steve, smoking his 
pipe, told the circumstances of the night. 

“De lawd ‘hab mercy,” exclaimed Clory at the con- 
clusion. “He sartainly must be a debbil to hit dis 
bu’ful crittur. Golly! How pale she is and how soft 
her lilly hands is. She suttinly must be a lady, she 
is So—” 

Clory paused, for Bessie had opened her brown 
eyes, and sitting bolt upright, was staring around in 
bewilderment. 

“Where am [?” she asked, “how came I— Oh, I 
remember all now. And you saved me. How kind of 
you! But, who are you?” 

“Dat’s all right, honey,’ said Aunt Clory, “but 
you’se in good hands. But youse mustn’t ’zert yer- 
self. It’ll be all de wuss fur yer. Jest lay down now 
and youse kin go ter sleep while you clothes is a- 
drying.” And so saying ,the good old colored woman 
hustled off and soon returned with dry clothing. 

Steve stepped into the next room and Clory dressed 
Bessie in them, and when he returned she was sleep- 
ing like a tired child in the clean, white bed of 
Clory’s. 


43 
GHAPTER V. 


To Meet Only As Acquaintances. 


A day or two after Mona had heard of Bertram’s 
marriage she wrote him a note requesting an inter- 
view with him. 

She was beside herself with impatience. 

“T must see him again, if only for a moment, 
muttered. 

When Bertram received it a scornful smile passed 
over his face. “Poor thing,’ he said, musingly. 
“Poor thing. After all the wrong she has done me [ 
pity her. But I cannot do as she wishes. It is better, 
as she said, that we meet simply as acquaintances. 
It will save unnecessary embarrassment.” 

So he penned her the following short note: 

“Miss Hawthorne: I have just received your note 
and regret to state that a prevous engagement pre- 
vents my being able to see you at the time named. 
Besides, I think it is better that in the future we meet 
only as acquaintances, and oblige, 

“Bertram Heathcourt.”’ 


9) 


she 


He could not resist the opportunity for such a re- 
taliatory reply. 

When he had completed the letter he despatched 
a servant to post it immediately. 

He had been at Heathcourt Park about two days, 
having been called on business of importance. 

When it was completed he started to the city, for 
he was longing for a sight of his loved one. 

It was in the afternoon of 'the last day in July when 
Bertram arrived at the unpretentious cottage of 


44 


Viola Dunkirk. He found that lady under the arbor at 
the side of the house, stitching away at some fancy 
work that lay in her lap. 

It was a beautiful picture as she sat under the shade 
of the green vines, with the evening light on her face, 
in her simple white robe, with red sash tied loosely 
around her waist and a spray of violets in her hair. 

Bertram, standing under one of the great old 
cedars in the yard, drank in her every movement, 
and he could not but compare her to all the women 
of his acquaintance. Immediately a great wave ot 
tender love came over him, stepping quickly up to 
her he teok her in ’.13 arms and showered kisses on 
her eyes, brow, hair and ripe rosy mouth, murinur- 
ing words of passionate, deathless love. 

“Viola! Viola! my love, my life, my all,” ne mur- 
mvured, and his voice was full of impassioned fine en- 
‘husiasm. “Bless you! My life is crowned with its 
chief blessing. You are mine, Viola. Mine—all 
mine!” 

Almost bereft of physical strength by her great 
love for him, she lay with her face hidden on the 
broad bosom of her impulsive lover for many mo- 
ments. At last she raised herself, moved back a 
little, and looked up into Bertram’s face, her own 
blushing 1n sweet confusion, and her eyes radiant with 
loving glances. 

“Do you really love me so much?” she faltered, 
her eyelids droopine bashfully. 

“Love you! Why, my darling, what would be my 
life without you. I shudder to think of it. Why do 
you ask, dearest?” 

“Because—because you are so—so far above me. 
You are such a fine gentleman that I—I am almost 


45 


afraid to marry you. People will say that I married 
you for selfish reasons. But—but you know better, 
don’t you, Bertram? You know it is because I—I 
love you more ‘than [I can tell. Oh! Ber- 
tram, if anything should ‘happen to part us I should 
die. I love you so.” And she cast her arms about 
his neck and sobbed happy tears. It was the first 
voluntary confession ‘he had ever had from her lips- 
and he kissed her tenderly when she made it, as he 
he said: | 

“Nothing shall ever part us, dear.” 

And so these sillv actions, of which lovers never 
weary, was kept up until the golden sun had sunk 
to rest and the clock in a neighboring church tower 
brought to Viola’s mind other thoughts. 

“How selfish I have been. I must go and look 
after mother, poor mother,’ she said sadly. “She 
seems to be getting worse. I have to be very careful 
of her. Any little excitement might prove fatal.” 

They had strolled on to the gate and were taking 
leave of each other. 

“T want you to think a good deal to-night, dear- 
est, for I want you to name the date the next time I 
see you.” 

The next time I see you! How many things can 
be done before that time! And in after days Bertram 
realized it. 


‘Mona In Rage.—Mrs. Dunkirk Dies. 


When Mona received Bertram’s letter she and her 
mother were sitting in the drawing room. She read 
it over slowly, and her face became pale with sup- 
pressed passion. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, 
her face distorted with rage, and she hissed: 


46 


“Tt is all her fault. She has won my love from 
me. I—I could kill her with my own hand. Beware 
Viola Dunkirk, how you cross my path. You will re- 
Sretuty: 

Her mother looked at her evil face with a sort of 
terror. She had never seen her daughter like this 
before. 

“My dear Mona,” she began, “you must not give 
way to passion like this. You must control yourself. 
It is too late to indulge in vain regrets. You have 
selected your own destiny. Now stick to it.” 

“I selected my own destiny? I! How can you 
say such a thing? Who was it that poisoned my 
mind against marrying Bertram? Who was it that 
told me to angle for Philip Clayton and forget the 
beggarly editor? The one I might have won from 
the first. It was only a matter of time, and short at 
that. You did—you, who never did love anyone but 
yourself, and don’t even know the meaning of the 
term. And then you stand there and tell me I select- 
ed my own destiny. And her lips curled in with a 
haughty scorn. 

The old lady winced at these homethrusts. She 
knew that every word was true, but it galled her to 
have her daughter to speak to her in that manner. 
So, rallying, she said sternly: 

“Hush! how dare you speak to me like that, and I 
your mother, too. Then you must never speak of Ber- 
tram in that mar..cr again. He is nothing to you— 
nothing. Just suppose Mr. Clayton were to hear 
of it, he would never if 

“T don’t care a fig for old Clayton,” blazed Mona. 
“IT hate him, loath him. And it ts as much as I can 
do to keep from telling him so sometimes.’ If it were 


47 


not for him and his filthy lucre, I would now be happy 
in the love of Bertram—the only man I ever will 
love.” And, wheeling around she came face to face 
with Col. Philip Clayton. 

He was very pale, and there was a cold glitter in 
his grey eyes, as he said sneeringly: 

‘“So—so that is why you consented to be my wife, 
eh? I might have known it. I wondered at your 
coldness of manner toward me, but I thought prob- 
ably it was just your natural way. I find out that | 
am mistaken, however. I never saw more passion in 
any ‘one’s face,” he continued with withering sarcasm, 
“than there was in yours while speaking of Bertram 
Heathcourt. There is no fool like an old fool, but 
I fear I must disappoint you about the filthy lucre, 
however. Miss Hawthorne, I bid you and your 
mother adieu.” And with mocking gravity he bowed 
himself out, leaving the two astonished women look- 
ing at each other in helpless dismay. 

The old lady recovered herself first, and going de- 
liberately up to her daughter, she caught her arm in 
a vice-like grip and gave her a good shaking. 

“Mona, you have done it now,” she said, harshly. 
When Mona, with flashing eyes, had shaken herself 
free. 

“You have lost the love of Colonel Clayton and he 
will never forgive you. You will learn to take my 
advice yet.” 

“T have taken your advice too much now,” re- 
torted tthe daughter. ‘“That’s why I lost Bertram’s 
love.” 

“This is another debt between Viola Dunkirk and 
myself that has to be cancelled,” she went on, harsh- 
ly. “I am going to wreak a terrible vengeance on 
her—a terrible vengeance.” 


48 


Her mother thought it was simply the raving of a 
disappointed woman, but the day came in which she 
remembered her words, and cursed the day in which 
Mona had ever known Viola. 

Mona suddenly left the room and proceeded to 
her chamber. Going to the window she locked out. 
The sun was just seting and the earth was bathed in 
a flood of golden light. The birds were singing their 
good night songs. A few pleasure seekers were just 
returning from their trip and their gay laughter was 
borne out on the still air of the lovely roving after- 
noon. 

But Mona had eyes for none of these. She was 
thinking—thinking. A plan so diabolical had entered 
her scheming mind that she shuddered to think of it, 
but it did not deter her. No warning voice whispered 
to her that though it might go smoothly for a while 
that God in his infinite love and mercy would never 
allow it to succeed. 

So she went headlong into 'the plot that was to re- 
coil on her own head and be her doom. 

After standing there about half an hour, she turned 
with a low laugh of exultation, and said: 

“Now, for the first move toward love and ven- 
geance,’ Going to the desk she ‘took out paper, pen 
and ink. Putting Bertram’s leter before her she 
wrote the following in his writing: 


Dear Miss Dunkirk: I am very sorry to say that 
from the force of circumstances, I am compelled to 
ask you to consider yourself free from any alliance 
with me. I thought truly that I loved you, but I find 
my heart has turned to its old allegiance. I find that 
I love her more dearly than ever, and hope to be able 


49 


to claim Miss Hawthorne’s hand in a very short while. 
Hoping that you will consider yourself (as I do) dead 
to me, I remain, respectfully, 

“Bertram: Heathcourt.”’ 


Having written this she called a servant and, tell- 
ing him to mail it early in the morning, she sat down 
to think of the second movement toward love and 
vengeance. 


CEA Ber RW. 
Returns And Finds Mother Dead. 


Viola watched her love out of sight, and slowly 
turned toward the house. “If I should lose him | 
believe it would kill me,’ she murmured musinegly. 

She entered the house. Its stillness struck her 
strangely. Quickening her pace she continued to 
her mother’s room. 

“Mother,” she called, as she reached the closed 
door. ‘Mother, may I come in. It is only I—your 
daughter.” She received no answer. A _ horribte 
fear shet through the girl’s heart. What if she were 
worse, or perhaps—but, no, no, perish the thought.” 

But, despite this little assurance, she opened the 
door rather quickly, and what she saw never left her 
mind. On the bed in’ the corner, pale as snow, lay 
her mother—dead. 

“Mother!” screamed the girl, “mother! speak to 
me. It is Viola—your child.” But no answer came 
from these pale, still lips. If they were not cold in 
death no power on earth could have prevented her 
from answering when that dear voice called. 


50 


“Mother! Oh, mother!” continued that agonized 
voice. “Oh, why did you leave me all alone? Mother, 
let me die and go with you, too,” and, throwing her- 
self on that dear breast, she wept as if her heart would 
break. How long she lay she did not know, but 
soon she caught the noise of closing doors and muf- 
fled tread, and into the room came three women. 

They were neighbors, and were on their back 
piazza chatting pleasantly when that agonizing 
scream reached their ears. They knew of the ill- 
health of Mrs. Dunkirk, and suspected the cause of 
the cry. So they hastily went over to see if they 
could render any assistance. 

Viola lay in a ‘half-stupefied condition. While one 
bore her light form to‘her room, the others performed 
the last sad offices of the dead. 

They remained all night at watch by the corpse, 
each taking turns to watch by the bedside of Viola, 
who lay tossing on her pillow over ‘half the night, 
murmuring always in the same monotonous strain, 
“Mother, oh, my mother! let me go with you.” 

She fell to sleep far into the night, and slept till 
late the next day. She arose calm and collected, for 
she knew she had to cease repining and turn her at- 
tention ‘to the practical side of life. She dressed herseli 
in a dress of deep black, and, going downstairs, she 
softly opened the door of the death chamber and 
stepped in. She went up to the couch on which the 
corpse lay, and drawing a chair close by the side of 
it, she gazed long and earnestly on the face of her 
mother. Finally she arose slowly, and with tears in 
her eyes, said: “Betram is all I have left. I am alone 
in the world.” 

She looked around the room, and, seeing a letter 


51 


on the table, she went over to see to whom it was 
addressed. There were two of them on the table, 
one without envelope. She saw that they were in 
the familiar handwriting of her mother. 

One was addressed to Bertram, the other to herself 
and marked, “To be read at once.’ She read as 
follows: 


“My darling daughter: When you read this letter 
{ will have gone from you forever. Please mail the 
letter at once to Bertram Heathcourt. You have been 
a good child—a good daughter to your mother, and 
I bless you for it. I have been watching the growing 
intimacy between you and Bertram with pleasure. 
You will marry him, I am sure, and I am glad—very 
elad—for more than one reason. Bea good wife to 
him. Be sure and mail the letter to him. Justice de- 
pends on his receiving it. Good-by, my child, and 
may God forever bless you is the fervent wish of 


your 
“Mother.” 


She wept freely over this letter, but she could not 
understand how justice depended on Bertram’s re- 
ceiving it. She had ‘half a notion to open it. But the 
temptation was short-lived. She could not betray 
her trust to the dead. So she sat down and wrote 
him a loving letter informing him of her mother’s 
death, and asked him to come to her. Then, putting 
a bonnet on and covering her face with a thick veil, 
she went out to mail them. 

That afternoon the funeral took place. Viola had 
saved a little money of her own—enough to bury her 
parent decently and without the assistance of any 
charitable institution. 


52 


After the funeral she was sitting in her room, tak- 
ing comfort from her bible when there came a quick 
ring at her door bell. She arose hastily and went to 
the door. It was the mail carrier. He handed her a 
letter, and, tearing it open eagerly, she read it. When 
she finished her cheeks were ghastly pale, and, giving 
a low moan, she clutched at her heart convulsively, 
and sank into a deep swoon. 


{ aul Te + < 
: ae oe 


ete 


oh ita’ 


ea 


BD 
CHAPTER VII. 
Lost Letter. 


When Viola recovered from her swoon it was dark. 
At first she could not remember what had happened. 
But gradually the truth dawned upon her mind, and 
with a low moan she staggered to her feet and wend- 
ed her way to her room. 

One of the neighbors consented to remain with 
her for several days—until she became used to the 
loneliness, Viola told her she was going to lie down, 
as she had a severe headache. But the next day 
found her unable to leave her room. The terrible 
strain on her nervous system hadi been so great for 
the last twenty-four hours that for two days she was 
utterly prostrated. When she began to feel better, 
she remembered the necessity of her finding some 
work, so she gave up the house and with what little 
money she had she secured cheaper rooms in a dif- 
ferent section of the city. 

Bertram was not at home when Viola’s mail ar- 
rived. A servant went to the village post office for 
the mail. When ‘he was returning home he noticed 
that the horse he was riding was unusually restless. 
The servant thought he was thirsty, so he went down 
to the watering place with him to give him a drink. 
As ill luck would have it, some persons in skiffs were 
passing at the time, ‘and as the horse stepped into the 
water to drink, they sent up a loud shout of jol- 
lity. The horse became frightened and reared. The 
suddenness of the movement caused the servant to 
lose his equilibrium. and in recovering dropped some 
of the letters in the water. As fate would have it, 
Viola’s own letter was among them, and! before the 


54 


man could do anything to save them they were 
whirled out into the middle of the stream, and went 
floating swiftly down toward the ocean. The man 
was very much frightened, but he decided not to say 
anything about it and of course nobody would know 
of if. 

When Bertram arrived after two days’ absence, he 
read his mail. The letter from Mrs. Dunkirk had a 
great effect upon him. It read thus: 


“Dear Mr. Heathcourt—I am dying. I know you 
love my daughter andi I wish you would come and 
take charge of her right away, for when you receive 
this letter I shall be in eternity. Mr. Heathcourt, 
I. will take ‘this opportunity to tell you 
something strange which happened in = my 
youthful days. When I was a young girl in England, 
a young and handsome man came from America and 
made love to me. I loved him dearly, and after 
a while married him. We were very happy for about a 
year. In the meantime my baby, Viola, was born. 
During one of our confidential chats he told me of a 
great wrong he had done his brother. How they 
both had loved the same woman, and his brother be- 
ing the favored one, he had revenged himself upon 
him by informing his father of the affair. How his 
father disinherited his brother after he had married 
her, and the fortune went to him. I was shocked, 
horrified, and I chided him for his sin. A coldness 
sprang up between us, and every day we drifted fur- 
ther apart, until he left me altogether I was alone, 
except for my baby Viola. I need not go into details. 
Suffice it to say that he gave me money enough to 
educate my child, and keep us from immediate want. 


30 


He left a note also, informing me that I never was 
his wife. He ‘had deceived me. The man who per- 
formed the ceremony was simply some one gotten 
for the occasion. A man by the name of Dunkirk, a 
good man, became acquainted with my story. He 
pitied me and finally made me his wife and gave my 
daughter—my nameless child—the shelter and pro- 
tection of his honorable name. 

’ “A few years after we came tio America to try our 
fortune, anid while my daughter was at school I, with 
the assistance of my husband, and detectives, man- 
aged to get on the track of the man who had wrong- 
ed me, intending that justice should be done his child 
at least. He, living under a fictitious name, made it 
very difficult for us to run him to earth, and when we 
were just about to close in on him he died. The next 
news that my detective brought was that he ‘had done 
justice to the son of the brother the ‘had wronged, and 
had installed him in the place that was his by right of 
birth. 

“The man that wronged me was Richard Heath- 
court, your uncle. I watched your growing intimacy 
with my daughter with pleasure, for I knew that a 
great wrong would be partially righted if you finally 
married her. You say you love her! I leave her young 
life into your hands. ‘Bea good husband to my child, 
and you will well merit the dying blessing of 

“Catherine Dunkirk.” 


When Bertram finished the letter, he sat staring 
straight before him. At last he said in a very low 
tone: ‘Poor woman! I guessshe is dead now. This 
letter is two days old. How she must have suffered. 
But ‘how much more happily she would have died if 


56 


she had only known that her child was legitimate. I 
must go down immediately and see after the welfare 
of my little Viola, my little darling. Bea good hus- 
band to her! May the Lord deal with me as I deal 
with her.” 

He arose as he spoke this last and ordered the car- 
riage. | 

Half an hour later he was speeding toward the city. 
Arriving there he appeared at the house where Viola 
had once lived, anid when he was informed that her 
mother was buried, and that Viola had gone off with- 
out giving any address, the was well nigth frantic. 

“She was looking mighty strange and queer-like, 
poor thing. I shouldn’t wonder if she’— 

The woman paused, for Bertram ‘had rushed out of 
the gate and down the street like a madman, crying: 
“Viola! Viola! Where are you?” 

On and on he ran, wildly, this face ghastly pale. 
People stopped to look at him curiously, wondering 
if he was some escaped lunatic. But Bertram turned 
neither to 'the right nor to the left, but kept on at a: 
dead run until “National!” yelled a newsboy. ‘Full 
account of the drowned girl!” 

The words struck upon Bertram strangely. He 
stopped short. 

“Extra, sir?” inquired the boy, seeing him stop so 
suddenly. Quickly Bertram paid him for one and 
glancing at it read the following: 

“Found drowned. A young and beautiful girl, 
about five feet six inches tall, dressed in mourning, 
golden hair, dark eyes, beautiful teeth. The rest of 
the features are so mutilated that she cannot be 
further described. Body at Undertaker Pinkham’s, 
awaiting identification” 


57 


“My God!” gasped Bertram. “That description 
tallies with Viola. I believe it isshe. I must go and 
see at once,” and wheeling about he called ‘a cab and 
said: 

“To Pinkham’s undertaking establishment! Swift 
as you can! Double fare!” 

The driver needed no second bidding. The horse 
fairly flew over the hard ground, and in ten minutes 
he was before the door of the undertaker. 

Paying the cabman he went up the stairs three at 
a time. ; 

“T want to see the body, the body of the drowned 
girl,’ he said, when he was in the presence of the un- 
dertaker 

The undertaker looked at him, and seeing the anx- 
1iousness in his face, escorted him to the bedside of 
the corpse, an'd pulled back the sheet from her face. 
Bertram gave one swift glance. “Great Heavens! 
How I loved her!” and fell down by the dead body, 
writhing in an agony of grief that he could give no 
utterance to except by heart-rending groans. Pres- 
ently he felt a touch on this arm, and looking up he 
found the undertaker looking at him pityingly. The 
good man was really touched by the young fellow’e 
erief, 

“Do you recognize her?” he asked, gently. 

“Recognize her!’ Bertram exclaimed. ‘“Recog- 
nize her! Yes. She was all lhadin the world. My 
Viola! My own Viola!” 

“Poor fellow,’ murmured: ‘the good man, with 
streaming eyes. “But you may be mistaken. See! 
The face is somewhat mutilated.” 

‘““Ah, no! I cannot be mistaken. It is she. See! 
The golden hair, the dark eyes, and long lashes; the 
white, even teeth. The sweet lips that I have kissed 


58 


over and over again. It is she! I know it! Oh, 
Viola! My lost love!” 

When the violence of his grief had somewhat 
abated he said to the undertaker: 

“Give her a Christian buriai and charge it to Bert- 
ram Heathcourt.’ 

On that day he attended the funeral. He brought 
some violets, her favorite flowers, and put them on 
her grave, and long after everyone had left he sat 
there ‘by the side of that grave, trying to think what 
his life was worth now. 

He finally left the cemetery for the city, and as he 
wended his way up the grave! path of his own home, 
he told himself that his heart was dead within him 
and buried in the grave of his lost Viola. 


59 
GHAR TE Rev itt: 


Letter Found. 


Two days had passed since Mona had taken her 
first step toward “Love and Vengeance.” On the 
afternoon of the second day she was feeling very rest- 
less, and thought she would take a row on the river 
for a change. So she dressed herself in a neat boating 
costume, and calling for a carriage she was driven to 
the boathouse on the great Potomac. She hired 
a little shell of a boat and was soon skimming over 
the smooth water like a swallow on the wind. She 
rowed up the river about two miles, and dropping 
the oars, let the little ‘boat drift with the current. 
After drifting about half a mile, she looked over to- 
ward the shore and saw a pretty little place, and the 
notion struck her to go there. Seizing the oars she 
steered for it. It was indeed a pretty little spot. The 
dark water was almost entirely still. Schools of small 
fish frisked about sportingly, casting miniature 
waves along its smooth surface. The tall white oak 
trees, that lined the shore; and the long, ‘drooping 
willows that hung far out over the water, made it a 
lovely little cove that would have been dear to the 
heart of any romantic person. Mona rowed her boat 
under one of the trees, and gave herself up to 
thought. She had been sitting about half an hour 
looking into the water with an unusual degree of pen- 
siveness when she noticed something white being 
borne slowly on the water toward her. Closer and 
closer it came, and then she saw that it was a letter. 
She leaned out to reach it, but the movement caused 
a wavelet or two to take it farther from her boat. 
Standing up quickly she reached up and broke off a 


60 


slim branch from one of the willows, and with this 
she slowly fished it toward her and succeeded in 


grasping it. She looked at it in perplexity. 

Where had she seen that writing before? And, 
great Heaven! For Bertram Heathcourt! She opened 
it with as little compunction as she would had 
it been her own, and read the loving letter written by 
Viola to her loved one. When she finished her brow 
was as black as a thundercloud. 

“Fate favors me,” she laughed, harshly. “Suppose 
he had received this. It would have knocked all my 
plans in the head. But I wonder how it came to be 
in the river?” 

She remained about five minutes longer in deep 
thought. 

“T will do it!” she exclaimed. “After all, the end 
justifes the means. I will go to his house and see 
him, if he will not come to me.” 

So saying, she seized the oars and turning the boat 
around, she sent it flying down the stream as swift 
as an arrow from a bow. 

And so began the second plan toward “Love and 
Vengeance.” 

Bertram Heathcourt was sitting in the library, 
with an open book in front of him, staring straight at 
the leaves, as if he would read his future there, when 
there came a tap at hisdoor. He started slightly. 

“Come,” he said, and in answer to the summons a 
footman opened the door. 

“A lady to see you, sir,” said he. 

“A lady!” in surprise. “I wonder who it can be?” 

“She did not send her card. She simply said that 
she MUST see you, as it is important.” 

Wondering greatly as to who his nightly visitor 
could be, he descended to the drawing room. 


61 


“Vou!” he exclaimed in astonishment. ‘You. 
Mona—Miss Hawthorne, and here! Great Heaven! 
You must be mad to come here.” 


It was indeed Mona Her face was very pale, and 
there was a determined compression about her lips 
and a light in her eyes not good to see. 

“Call it madness, or what you will, I am here, and 
I must ask you a few questions.’ 

“What do you wish to know?” asked Bertram, 
hesitatingly. 

There was a few moments pause, and then she an- 
swered: “I would like to know if you love that pau- 
per, Viola Dunkirk, and if you are going to marry 
her?” 

Bertram stood as if rooted to the spot. What did 
it mean? Was not everybody aware of Viola’s death? 

“You do not answer,” she continued, seeing his 
hesitation. 

At last he recovered himself and asked: “‘Is it 
possible, Miss Hawthorne, that you do not know that 
Viola Dunkirk is dead?” 

Mona started violently. Was this true? The girl 
she feared—dead? 

“No—no. I did not know it.” To herself she said: 
“Tf I cannot win him now, I have not the power over 
the male sex that I once had, and may as well give 
him up. 

There was a long pause, which was at last broken 
by Mona, who asked: 

“Did you love her?” 

“Did I love her?” in surprise. “Do you think I 
would ask her to be my wife if I did not?” 

“True, true. And yet—oh, Bertram! When did 
you cease to love me—I, who loved you first and 


62 


best? After asking me to be your wife, to fall in love 
with that beggar girl, even while the words were yet 
warm on your lips.”’ 

She looked at him beseechingly. Her eyes were 
streaming with tears. 

Bertram was astonished. 

“T beg your pardon,” he said, a little coldly. “But 
if Viola was a poor girl, she was a lady in every sense 
of the word, and she was not a coquette,” he contin- 
ued, meaningly. “I would rather you would not 
speak of her in that irreverent manner.” 

This defence of the girl she hated, and above all, 
the covert sneer in his words, to sting her, almost 
drove her to madness. 

“She lhad no right to come between us—to rob me 
of my love!” she cried, springirg to her feet, her 
black eyes flashing. “I loved you first and best; she 
had no right to take you from me. Why did you 
cast my love back in my teeth after winning my 
heart?” 

“You forget that you are the one to whom that 
accusation might be applied,’ he said sternly. ‘After 
giving me every reason to believe that you loved me, 
to reject me, because I was a beggarly editor, and ac- 
cept Col. Philip Clayton, because he was wealthy.” 

For one single moment Mona was disconcerted— 
only for a moment. Instantly a plan shot through 
her subtle brain and she proceeded to act upon it. 


63 
CHAPTER IX. 
Mrs. Hawthorne’s Deceit. 


“Beggarly editor! Col. Clayton wealthy!’’ she said, 
opening her eyes wide in mock amazement. “What 
on earth do you mean? I do not understand you. 
Explain yourself. 

Bertram’s face darkened. “Do you mean to say 
that you did not write a note to me, in answer to a 
request to see you, after your mother had refused me 
admission to her home, informing me that you were 
engaged to Col. Clayton, and that you preferred we 
should meet hereafter simply as acquaintances?” 

“No, Bertram; no, I did not write any such note,” 
she said, with innocent quietness. ‘““Nor have I re- 
ceived one from you requesting an interview.” 

“Here,” he said, taking from his pocket the letter 
in question. “There! Look at that and tell me you 
did not write it.”’ 

She turned a shade paler as she gazed on the note 
that had been the death blow to her own hopes, anid 
said, tremulously: “No, I did not write it. Oh! 
Heavens! I see it very plainly now. Who would 
have believed it? The one, too, who should have 
made my happiness her chief study. Oh! It is cruel!” 
And the hypocrite actually shed tears as she gave 
utterance to these incoherent words. 

Bertram had not the faintest idea what her words 
implied. He sat watching ‘her in perplexity. Directly 
he said: 

“What is it, Miss Hawthorne? Why do you go on 
in that strain?” 

“Tt is enough to break my heart,” she said, with a 
hysterical scb, wringing her hands. Then, turning 


64 


abruptly. “Man! Can’t you understand. Can’t you 
see that that is forgery?” 

A swift pallor shot across his face. What if it were 
a forgery? But it was closely followed by a look of 
incredulity. 

“A forgery! How canit be? Who could have any 
object in doing such a thing?” ; 

“My mother,” she said, sharply. 

Bertram started. “But the note I sent your The 
boy who carried it said he gave it to you as [| in- 
structed him to dio.” 

“The boy prevaricated,” she said, sharply. “I heard 
him ring, and came to the head of the stairs; my 
mother answered the bell, and I heard her say: “What 
isit? ‘I want tosee Miss Mona,’ answered he. ‘I’ve 
got a note for her.’ ‘Give it to me; I will deliver it,’ 
my mother said. It seemed as if the boy hesitated. 
‘Give it here this instant,’ said mother, stamping her 
foot. The boy must have been frightened into com- 
plying, for I heard mother say: ‘Now, wait for an 
answer.’ Soon I heard the door slam, and knowing 
that he was gone I came ‘down to see what it was all 
about. ‘What is it, motherr’ I asked. ‘It is nothing 
but an invitation to the opera,’ she remarked, care- 
lessly. Mother was always at liberty to open my 
letters, so I thought no more of it. That night we 
attended the opera, and some one made a remark 
about your being engaged to that—that Viola Dun- 
kirk, and half dead with unrequitted love I accepted 
Col. Clayton the next day, partly at ‘this earnest re- 
quest, and partly out of spite My mother, whom I 
trusted, and whom I believed the soul of honor, be- 
trayed me, and now I’ve lost all that is worth living 
for!’ And she cast herself dejectedly into a chair, 
and burst afresh into angry tears. 


05 


Bertram felt really sorry that she loved him so 
well—sorry that he could not respond to her love. 
The idea that she had uttered a deliberate falsehood 
never for once entered his mind. He did not believe 
that this girl, in order to gain the ends of her own 
selfish heart, would be willing to sacrifice her mother. 
Her mother, though a scheming woman, loved her 
dearly, and did all of her scheming for her daughter’s 
sake. After sitting some minutes in deep thought he 
said: “I am very sorry for you, Mona—very sorry. 
But what can I dor” 

“What can you do?” she echoed, eagerly. “Youu 
can make me your wife. You need not look so 
shocked. I have no pride now. Why can’t a woman 
plead for her love just as a man. The foolish 
world debars a woman from obeying the dictates of 
her own heart when she ought to be allowed to do 
so. Her love is all she has. Oh, Bertram! Let me 
be your wife.” 

She had come close to him, and rested her hand 
pleadingly on his arm, looking him directly in the 
eyes. . 

He moved back a little as he said: “Impossible, 
Miss Hawthorne. I[ cannot do as you suggest.” 

“Why: can’t you?” 

“For the simple reason that I do not love you. 
See! My pulse does not thrill at your touch. My 
heart does not throb more quickly. It would be 
wrong to marry you.” 

“You used to love me once—until she came be- 
tween us. Oh, Bertram! If you'do not marry me I 
shall die. My heart is broken.” 

It is no light thing for a man to have a young and 
beautiful woman standing before him with tear-dim- 


66 


med eyes and tell him in a woebegone voice that her 
heart is broken, especially when she is inclined to lay 
the cause of it at ‘his door. No wonder, then, that 
Bertram seeing her sorrow, felt touched by her 
pleadings and after thinking deeply, said: 

“Mona, you ‘have suffered and I seem to be in- 
directly the cause of your suffering. If, therefore, I 
can make atonement for the unintentional wrong I 
will consent to do as you wish. I will strive to make 
you happy and to be a good husband to you, but I 
tell you frankly, my heart is dead, and the ashes can 
never be kindled. Will you accept me at such an ex- 
pense?” 

“Yes, gladly. My own Bertram,” she murmured, 
twining her fair arms around his neck and kissing him 
passionately, the light of a deathless love shining in 
her eyes. She thinks, love like mine cannot fail to 
win love in return. 

He drew her head down on his bosom and im- 
planted a cold kiss on her forehead and they were 
betrothed. Finally he said: 

“It is late,’ taking out his watch, “and the last 
train goes by in half an hour. Sit here while I order 
the carriage.” He ordered the carriage, which soon 
came around to the entrance and in a short time 
they were at the station. 


He had just arrived, when he noticed the slender 
figure of a woman, closely veiled, come staggering 
into the waiting-room and ina weary voice ask for a 
ticket for Washington. It seemed as if she could 
hardly stand as she walked on toward the train after 
receiving her ‘ticket. Bertram, with inherent cour- 
tesy offered to assist ‘her, but shrinking from him, she 
made some inaudible refusal and passed on. There 


67 
seemed to be something strangely familiar about her 
to Bertram, but after vainly trying to think where 
he had: seen her before, he dismissed the occurrence 


from his mind. But oh! with what force wag it re- 
called in after days. 


68 
CHARTER OX, 


Viola’s New Home—Warning To Banker. 


When Viola Dunkirk left her home she went to the 
house of one of her friends and remained to dinner 
at her friend’s earnest request. In the afternoon they 
set out together to find a place where Viola could 
obtain comfortable lodging in a respectable portion 
of the city. Late in the afternoon they succeeded in 
finding one in the suburbs of the city—a pretty, white 
vine-wreathed cottage, before which was a copse of 
stately oaks. It was owned by a good old widow, 
who had been living all alone, and who was just wish- 
ing some one would come and take rooms and relieve 
her of the dullness. Viola liked her new home very 
much and decided to move in immediately. That 
night, about nine o’clock, she announced her inten- 
tion of going to transact some important business. 
It was rather late for her ‘to go out, but that did not 
deter her. In fact, Viola was longing for a sight of 
her lover and the idea came to her that if she went to 
his home she might obtain a last glimpse of him be- 
fore she started out on her dreary road to-morrow 
to earn her bread. So, wrapping a heavy shawl 
around her shoulders and conceiling her face in a 
thick veil, she went to the depot and purchased a 
ticket, took a seat aboard the train and was soon at 
B ville station. Arriving there she asked the 
station master how far was “Heathcourt Park.” He 
told her, and she set out to walk the distance. When 
she came to the han'dsome mansion she looked at it 
ina kind of awe. It was no wonder she thought that 
he would not marry her—a poor girl without wealth 


69 


and refinement. How could she ever expect to shine 
as mistress in a house like that, beside beautiful Mona 
Hawthorne? She was mad to have even thought of 
it for an instant. And yet, Viola, your lover this 
very instant is thinking how lonely his life is to be 
and would gladly have given up all the wealth he 
possessed if you could only be restored to his arms. 
She wendedi her way up the slope to the window. 
There—could it be possibler—yes, there was Mona, 
and here comes Bertram into the room. How hand- 
some he is! At sight of him her foolish little heart 
began to flutter like a caged bird, and she put her 
hand on her bosom in order to stop its violent throb- 
bing. She gazed on them both from her place of con- 
cealment, wondering what they were talking about. 
She was unconscious of the time that passed.. Like 
one fascinated she continued to look at them until 
Mona put her arms around his neck, and when she 
saw him draw her head down on his bosom and kiss 
her, the spell was ‘broken. 

With a low moan she turned and fled down the 
gravel path like a doe. On and on she ran, until the 
light from the station twinkled out to her, like a 
beacon, and she saw it with the same feeling a storm- 
tossed mariner sees for the first time the “lights 
along the shore.” She ran until she was completely 
exhausted, and she sat down for a few minutes to rest 
on the trunk of a fallen tree. She arose directly, and 
slowly wended her way to the station ,and arrived 
there just a little before Bertram and Mona. 

When Bertram spoke to her, it was as much as she 
could do to keep from fainting outright, but with a 
mighty effort she managed to get to the car without 
assistance. 


70 


She took a seat in the car at one end, and cover- 
ing her face more effectually, she cowered down in 
her seat like a criminal. Arriving in Washington she 
set out on foot for her home. Just before reaching 
her cottage, and while she was yet in the copse of 
woods, the sound of men’s voices reached her ears. 
Concealing herself beyond some briar bushes, she 
heard the following ‘conversation. One of the 
speakers had a voice that was very familiar. 

“When are you going to tackle the house, boss?” 
said a course voice. 

“In three hours’ time—at half-past two A .M.” 

“Jimmy, this is mighty short notice.” 

“Yes, I just got my bearings. And, as I’ve gota 
job on for to-morrow night, I thought that this would 
be the best time in which to break in the old duffer’s 
house.”’ 

“But you haven’t told me whose house we are to 
crack yet, boss.”’ 

“That’s so. Well, it is the old retired banker, 
Ouimby, on Pennsylvania Avenue. Here is a bunch 
of false keys for the door, and these are for the safe. 
It is an old-fashioned affair, and I guess it won’t be 
dificult to open Secure the boodle if you can with- 
out shedding blood, but if any one tries to stop you, 
why, just tickle him under the fifth rib with your 
frog sticker.” 

Viola did not want to hear any more She knew 
they were planning robbery, and would perhaps kill 
some one if they were caught in the act. Here one 
thought entered her mind, and that was to save the 
banker. Creeping out of her place of concealment 
as quietly as possible, she sped down the road as fast 
as her feet could carry her. She knew where the 


71 


great banker resided, and she had no trouble in find- 
ing his house. She ran up the broad stone steps and 
rang the bell violently. As luck would have it, there 
was some one still up, and when the door was opened 
she asked:” | 

“Ts this Mr. Ouimby’s residence?” 

Lesa 

Plsne ine? 

“Yes, miss, he isin. But’”——— 

“T wish to see him at once.” 

The servant eyed her suspiciously, but seeing her 
prompt, decided manner, he conducted her into a 
handsomely furnished apartment. 

In an arm chair, surrounded by papers, sat the old 
retired banker, engaged in writing. He looked up 
as Viola entered. He wasa man of about sixty years, 
His hair was long and white, which gave him a ven- 
erable appearance. His eyes were still good, and 
they were very bright as he turned them upon her. 

“You wish to see me, miss?” he asked, gently. 

“Yes, sir,’ she answered, ‘breathlessly. “They are 
going to rob your house to-night at half-past two. 
Oh, sir! If you don’t prevent them, they may kill 
some one!” 

“Robbers coming here?” he asked, in deep amaze- 
ment. 

“Yes, sir,’ she panted. “I was ina copse of woods 
to-night on my way home, and I heard them plan- 
NUIOr ihe be 

She did not finish it. The strain had been so great 
that the strength which had upheld her all along re- 
fused to exist any longer, and ‘before the banker 
could dio anything to prevent it she had staggered 
forward and fell heavily to the floor. The banker 


72 


rang for assistance, and to a servant who answered 
the summons, said: 

“Have a room fixed for her immediately ; she must 
remain ‘here for the present” 

“What is it, George?’ was asked, as a tall woman 
advanced into ‘the room, and despite the streaks of 
silver that were in her hair, she was still very hand- 
some. | 

“A young girl, wife, who heard men planning to 
rob me to-night, and came to warn me. She must 
have exerted herself too much. She has fainted.” 

“Poor young thing,” said motherly Mrs. Quimby. 
“How beautiful she is. How perfectly sweet and 
lovely. Take her, Jaundice, to the unoccupied room 
on the second floor.” 

Viola was conveyed to the room mentioned, where 
all manner of restoratives were used to bring her out 
of her swoon. At last she opened her beautiful eyes, 
but there was no look of recognition in their dark 
depths. 

The doctors who were called in pronounced it a 
severe case of brain fever, and recommended quiet- 
ness. She lay on the pillow, white as a sheet, with 
the exception of two spots burning on either cheek, 
crying always: “Robbers! They will shed blood, 
You did not mean it. You were just trifling,’ and 
so on she continued, with but little cessation, for days 
and nights. 


13 
CHAPTER XI. 


Viola Adopted. The Rescue. 


Three weeks had passed since Viola went to the 
house of Mr. Quimby to warn him of the robbers. 
The night she went to warn him the robbers came, 
but were surprised to find officers of the law lying 
in wait to entertain them. <A portion of them were 
captured, but the principals escaped. 

The banker and his wife fell in love with the beau- 
tiful girl at first sight. When she recovered and 
spoke of going away, they would not hear her. They 
pleaded so earnestly with Viola to stay—to remain 
and be their child, to let them adopt her—that she 
consented, partly to please them, and partly because 
she loved the two gentle old people who had been 
so good and kind to her. She had come to be the 
light of the house. Her gay laughter, her merry 
snatches of song and natural vivacity which could not 
be repressed, were in strong contrast to the former 
grimness and quietude of the grand old house. 

The old banker and lis wife were delighted. They 
loved the young girl who had come into their lives so 
miraculously. 

Viola was very happy in her new home After she 
recovered, she found ‘herself the belle in fashionable 
society. She rode, went to balls, parties, operas and 
picnics. There was a continual round of gayety. 

She was very happy in her new home. Poor girl! 
She ‘had been so unfortunate in this world’s goods 
that the other side of life formed a very pleasing con- 
trast, and one that was ‘duly appreciated by her. So 
matters ran on for two months, without anything to 
mar its brightness. One day Viola announced her 


74 


intention of going for a ride without any escort. The 
old banker and his wife mildly protested, and advised 
her to take a groom, but the wilful little miss would 
not hear of it. 

“T shall be perfectly able to take care of myself,” 
she said gayly, as she flitted up the steps. ‘“‘And be- 
sides,’ she continued, somewhat fretfully, “it is so 
bothersome to have men dangling at one’s heels, for- 
ever talking silly nothings.” 

“Dear heart,” said Mr. Quimby. “She is the light 
of my old life—a veritable Godsend. I don’t see how 
we could ever have got along without her.” 

“Yes, Viola is a good, affectionate little creature. 
But there seems to be something strange in her man- 
ner sometimes. The curious spells of gayety, and 
then absolute gloom. Have you never noticed it? 
No! Why, Philip, I have actually caught her in tears 
twice. Do you think,’ lowering her voice, “that 
there might be a—a lover in the case? There gen- 
erally is when’’— 

“Hut! tut! Mabel,’ he said contemptuously 
“Why, there is as much difference between her and 
other girls as there 1s between you and other wom- 
en,’ bowing and waving his hand with old-fashioned 
gallantry. ‘‘And besides, I don’t want her to think 
of young men yet, until she has seen Bertram Heath- 
court. I should like a match between them above 
all things.” 

In ‘half an hour Viola came flitting down the broad 
steps, and after kissing the two dear faces, ran lightly 
down the steps and was soon galloping down the 
street. She looked lovely in her well-fitting dark 
blue riding habit, with a coquettish hat ornamented 
with a simple crimson wing of a bird, setting on her 


75 


girlish head, her fine golden hair tossed playfully by 
the breeze People turned and watched her admir- 
ingly, wondering who the beautiful equestrienne was, 
who sat her horse so gracefully. 

Bertram Heathcourt, who was on his way to Mr. 
Quimby’s to pay a call, for he was an intimate friend 
of the banker’s, saw her just as she suddenly turneld 
a corner, and he started back with a wild cry. 

“My God! It is Viola!’ ‘he cried, hoarsely. “Tell 
me,’ he panted, turning to a fashitonably-dressed 
dandy, with patent leather pumps with pink -bows, 
and clad in that very becoming style of male attire 
called “skin-tights,’’ which would have puzzled the 
scientist of any age to explain the phenomenon; an 
eye-glass, and the hea'd of ‘his cane in his mouth. “Tell 
me who that young lady was that just passed on that 
chestnut-colored horse.”’ 

The fellow leisurely took his cane from his 
mouth, elevated his eye-glasses, and rewarded Bert- 
tram with a cool stare that made Bertram consider 
the advisibility of knocking him down, and was only 
prevented from doing so by the hope of obtaining the 
desired infomation. 

“Well, stand there and stare at me about four min- 
utes longer anid not answer my question as a gentle- 
man should.” Bertram rather emphasized the word 
“gentleman,” and, as he had guessed, not without 
the desired effect. The dandy straightened himself, 
pushed out his tiny left foot in advance of the right 
and after making a few vigorous attempts to clear his 
throat, drawled: 

“Oh, baw Jove! That wath Mith Quimby, the 
adopted daughter and heireth of the honorable Mr. 
Quimby the banker. She’s a dooced pretty girwell, 


76 


she is, too, don’t you think so? Fresh in the market, 
she is. I wath just conthidcring whether I had bet- 
ter go in the rathe, you know Do you think I have 
any chanth of winning,’ and he primped up his 
mouth, showed the gold filling in his teeth, and imag- 
ined himself the “real thing,’ but Bertram did not 
agree with him in his imagination, for in answer to 
his inquiry, ‘he said: 

“Yes; as much as any other consummate coxcomb 
who waits upon her in a dining hall and imagines 
himself her equal,” and withtout giving the surprised 
receiver of this speech another glance he strode 
away. 

“How did he know I wath a waiter, I wonder? I 
don’t remember ever seeing him before. I wish I 
had him here now. I would give hima good thump- 
ing for inthulting a gentleman of cultchaw and refine- 
ment.” 

Meanwhile Viola, all unconscious of this little dia- 
logue, was riding on her way She passed from the 
streets of the city into those of the suburbs, thence 
into the high road She rode along leisurely, drink- 
ing in the beauty of the scenery spread out before 
her. 

The grand old trees, for which Virginia is noted, 
were waving lazily to and fro, as if in resentment 
against the gentle breeze. The sun was going down 
behind the gilded clouds The broad Potomac lay 
before hher alive with pleasures, and the beauty was 
greatly enhanced by the blue vista of mountains far 
in the background. She caught her breath with de- 
light at the loveliness of the scene. Her eyes took on 
a brighter sparkle, her cheeks a richer glow. 

Bang! It was a report of a gun in the woods on the 


77 


left. The horse started and reared. The shooting 
had frightened him. Under ordinary circumstances 
Viola was a good horsewoman, but she was so occu- 
pied in gazing at the beautiful sunset that when the 
report was heard she unintentionally dropped the 
reins. The horse took advantage of the situation and 
seizing the bit in his teeth, started off full tilt for 
the river. Along the smooth road he sped as if mad- 
dened. Viola managed to get the reins in her hand, 
and attempted to rein in the frightened animal. The 
only result was the bruising of her hands. Half dead 
with fear she tried to pull him in, and so hard did she 
pull that the blood oozed from her finger ends. 

“Ohh, heavens! I can’t stop him,” she moaned, in 
despair. : 

Straight to the precipice overhanging the river the 
horse sped, with dilated nostrils and foam-flecked 
flanks. Four hundred yards, and then, poor Viola! 
Would nothing save her? She was so young to die. 

“Oh, God! Am I to die such a horrible death?” 
she moaned piteously 

Is she? See! A young man on horseback sees her 
danger, raises his gun as if to shoot He hesitates, 
drops his gun and comes toward the runaway at full 
speed. Nearer he approaches. Nearer. Two hun- 
dred yards to the precipice, fifty yards from him to 
her. Nearer he comes. He gives a shout, but the 
sound is drowned in the noise of the hoofbeats. 
Nearer! One hundred yards to the precipice. Ten 
yards between him and her. Fifty yards to the preci- 
pice. Three yards still intervene between them. See! 
He reaches out his hand! He seizes her around the 
waist, lifts her bodily from the saddle into his own, 
and by a superhuman effort stops his horse just as the 


78 


the other, with a cry like that of a human being, van- 
ished over the precipice. 

It was a brave act—one that few men ate have 
undertaken. He turns his unconscious burden in his 
arms to a more comfortable position, and, for the 
first time, takes a good look at her. The effect was 
wonderful. 


79 
CECA EA tees eT 


Viola Arnold Campbell’s Prey. 


The young man catches his breath; his eyes seem 
to start from their sockets. He almost loses his hold 
of his fair burden. 

“Viola Dunkirk!” the gasps. My God! How is 
this? The whole city has been ringing with the ac- 
count of her death, and now’’— 

He pauses and a triumphant smile passes over his 
dark face. His eyes light up with a devilish expres- 
sion. 

“She is mine, now; all mine,” he said, with intense 
satisfaction. “I swore to possess you, my beautiful 
Viola, and I will keep my word. You shall be mine, 
body and soul.” He chuckled wickedly to himself 
as he realized how completely the young girl was in 
his power. 

He rode up the river road, thinking ‘deeply. Pres- 
ently he muttered: “I wonder what it all means? 
She, a poor girl, dressed in all this finery?” 

He could not answer that query, and he finally 
quickened the pace of his horse as he said: “I will 
take her to the rendezvous. Madge will keep her 
safe until I get a minister to tie the knot”’ 

He turned from the road as he uttered this, and 
rode up to a large, rambling house on the river bank. 
It was a peculiar structure, about three stories high. 
Half the windows were out on the upper floor, but 
the doors anid windows, which were all of wood and 
the great wheel at the side, would have given it the 
appearance of a disused mill but for the latticed piaz- 
_zaat the front. The young man rode around to the 
side of the house, and after dismounting, knocked on 


80 


the door, which was soon opened by a woman. She 
was a terrible creature to look upon Her figure was 
almost bent double, and had piercing black eyes, 
looking out from under a pair of heavy brows and 
talon-like fingers, and made one, at first glance, in- 
stinctively recoil, as if confronted by some wild beast. 

“Madge, I have brought you a companion, and [I 
want you to take good care of her. Pour some 
brandy down her throat, and when she comes around 
tell her that the man who saved her life will be in 
directly to see her. Don’t let her escape; do you 
hear?” 

“Oh, I know how to take care on ’em,” she an- 
swered, in a sharp, rasping voice. “I’ve taken care of 
‘nough on ’em for you”’ | 

“Shut up! How dare you mention such things. 
Go! And do as I told you.” 

The woman gave a chuckle as she went about her 
task, and ‘he stepped out into the yard. 

“How pooty she is! How I hate pooty girls! I 
could tear her eyes out. They all are scornful. Yes, 
stuck up, and think theirselves better’n other folks,’ 
And she showed’ a set of yellow fangs, as if she would 
devour the young girl, then and there. — 

Viola soon opened her eyes and gazed about in a 
frightened manner. She found herself in a meagrely 
furnished room, with no carpet on the floor. In one 
corner stood a rickety table. In the centre of the 
floor were two chairs, while beside the iron cot on 
which she lay sat a woman looking at her savagely. 
Viola could not repress a shudder as she gazed ‘on 
the woman. 

“Where am 1?” she asked, rubbing her eyes, and 
looking around in bewilderment. “And who are 
your” 


b] 


SI 


“He'll be in after a while—the one that saved your 
life—and I’m his housekeeper,” was the surly reply. 

“What gentleman was it who saved my life?” 

“You'll see for yourself directly,” she said, and 
then there was an exultant ring in her voice. “He'll 
soon be in to answer for himself.’ 

Viola remained quiet for a short time, looking 
thoughtfully at the floor. Suddenly she took out her 
watch and was surprised to find that it was so late 

“Why, it is twenty minutes to seven, and papa will 
be so anxious to know where Iam. Can’t you tell 
the gentleman to make haste. I shouldn’t like to go 
without thanking the man who saved my’’— 

She stopped, for the door had: opened, and a man 
advanced into the room. One glance, and Viola 
started 'to her feet with a wild cry, and clutched at 
her throat as if suffocating. 

“You!” she gasped. “You! Oh! Pitying heaven! 
Why didn’t I perish over the precipice?” 

The woman had stepped from the room as soon as 
he had entered it. The man closed the door, locked 
it and put the key in his pocket and turning to Viola 
with a mocking smile, said: 

“You seem to shrink from me as if I were an ogre, 
Miss Dunkirk. I am sure I mean you no harm. Have 
you no kind word for me? And it-is such a long time 
since we have seen each other. You remember our 
last meeting, do you not?” 

She was looking straight before her and beyond 
the nervous rising and falling of her bosom, one 
would imagine that she was a statue. 

“You do not answer me,” he said, impatiently, 
“and after I have just saved your life by risking my 


own. I think I deserve some consideration, if noth- 
ing more than a look.” 


82 


She realized that she had better say something, 
and act in a conciliatory manner, and probably he 
would release ‘her. For that she was wholly in his 
power she fully realized. So with an effort she ex- 
tended her hand, and said’: 

“T thank you ever so much for saving my life. It 
was abrave act and when I go home [ shall tell Papa 
Quimby, and as he is rich, I know that he will remun- 
erate you.” 

At the mention of that name Arnold started back. 

“What is Mr. Quimby to you?” he asked quickly. 

“He is my adopted father,” she answered. 

His eyes lighted up avariciously. So this is why 
she was so finely clothed, andi was out enjoying the 
evening on ‘horseback. The daughter of the great 
banker and therefore his heiress. If Arnold Camp- 
bell was determined to win her before, he was doubly 
so now The money itself was a great incentive, to 
say nothing of his love. 

“She shall be mine!” he muttered, fiercely, with 
bated breath. “By fair means or foul.” ‘Aloud he 
said: 

“You are very fortunate in being the daughter of 
such a worthy gentleman.” 

“Yes,” she said. “Papa is very good to me and 
loves me and that reminds me,” she said suddenly, 
“that he will be very anxions at my long absence. I 
must go to him at once.” 

A peculiar gleam shot into his dark eyes. 

“Must you really go so soon?” he inquired, with 
well-assumed sorrow. 

“Yes, I have been from home two whole hours. 
And ‘besides, it is almost dark. Will you let me pass, 
please?” 


83 


“Well—er, the fact is, Miss Quimby, you cannot 
go just yet.” 

“Sir!” She was very much frightened, but she 
spoke without a tremor. 

“Well, you see, it is rather late, and you area long 
way from home, and it would not be prudent to go.” 

“T am not afraid, sir. I have been living here for 
years, and feel perfectly safe in coming and going 
whenever I please. Let me pass, if you please” 

The clear, searching eyes of the girl were on him, 
and he found it difficult 'to return her gaze. . His eyes 
fell, as he said: 

“T cannot let you go yet.” 

“What do you mean?” and her voice trembled in 
spite of ‘herself. 

He remarked it; and the thought that he was 
frightening her made him answer more boldly: 

“Miss Dunkirk, that your ever leaving this house 
depends altogether on yourself.” 

“T do not understand you.” in surprise. “What 
can I do that will cause you to let me leave this 
house?” 

His face flushed with passion. 

“T love you, Viola. ‘Be my wife this very night 
and you can go,” the said, eagerly. 

She started from him a step or two. 

“You must be mad to'think of such a thing. I 
would never marry without my parents’ consent, and 
besides, I do not love you.” 

“Perhaps not; but it will come in time.” 
wrong. God would never bless such a union.” 

“T cannot,’ she said, pleadingly. “It would be 

“Then,” he said, angrily. “You will stay here until 
you change your mind.” 


84 


He turned on his heel as he spoke, and with a piti- 
ful cry Viola sprang after him, and throwing herself 
at his feet, cried: 

“Oh, sir, for the love of heavven, don’t detain me 
here. Think how troubled my father and mother 
will be at my strange absence . If you ‘have one spark 
of manhood in your breast, you will release me for 
their sake.” 


“T will give you one minute to consent to be my 
wife; if you refuse, here you'll stay until you do con- 
sent,’ he answered, doggedly. 


“Then hear my answer now, without a minute’s re- 
flection,’ she cried, springing to ‘her feet, her eyes 
blazing, her face crimson with indignation, “I would 
rather ‘die than become your wife. Do you hear? 
God never ordained such, nor is there any possible 
chance of your ever becoming my ‘husband. A thief 
and a murderer I never would marry!” 

“What do you mean?” he cried, hhoarsely, his face 
ghastly pale. 

“Yiou know what I mean. Ah, ‘ha! You may try 
well to cover it, you wretch. I know your little secret 
and will blaze it forth to ‘the world if you do not re- 
lease me.” 

“She knows my little secret,” thought Arnold. 
“Nevertheless, she shall never leave here other than 
as my wife. Then her testimony will not be worth 
anything. I must go to the city early in the morning 
and secure the services of some not over-conscien- 
tious clergyman to officiate. It is not now a question 
_ of love and wealth, but a question of safety.” 

Viola had sprang after him as he left the room only 
to have the door closed in her face, and a squeaky 
click announced the fact that the door was lock- 


85 


ed. The girl became well nigh frantic. She screamed 
and kicked at the door, and realizing that all such 
attempts were failures, she ceased. 

“Oh! Heaven ‘help and pity me,” she moaned. “I 
am in this man’s power and unless some assistance 
comes I shall be forced into a unton with him. 

She was feeling terribly exhausted and she threw 
herself on the little cot and was soon sleeping, obliv- 
ious of every trouble. 


’ 


&6 
CHAPTER XIII. 
Bertram And Mona’s Marriage Announcement 


The engagement between Mona and Bertram had 
been announced. Preparations were being made for 
the wedding, which was decided to take place 
on the 15th of September. The bridal trousseau had 
been ordered from the Nortb and portions of the 
wardrobe were coming every day. Rolls of silk, 
boxes of gloves and shoes, ribbons, bonnets, fine old 
lace, were arriving daily without cessation. Mrs. 
Hawthorne was in ecstacies over her daughter’s good 
fortune. During these days she was an ideal mother. 
She chatted pleasantly and gave good advice to her 
daughter. She rode, drove, gave parties, and went to 
operas, and all in all, she was one of the happiest 
creatures in the city—at peace with all the world. 

‘Mona’s chief delight seemed to be in the presence 
of her lover. When he was with her she was all 
smiles, she talked gayly and sang and tried every 
artifice with which she was acquainted to be loving. 


*K *K *K ok *K K *K ok 


When Mr. and Mrs. Quimby returned home that 
night they were surprised to learn that Viola had 
not yet arrived. They thought probably that she had 
stopped at the house of one of her friends, but when 
at twelve o'clock she did not return, they sent out a 
couple of men servants to look for her The men re- 
turned in two or three hours and said they had not 
learned anything of her whereabouts. The old peo- 
ple were sorely troubled, and early the next morning 
Mr Quimby went to the police headquarters and in- 


87 


formed the chief of Viola’s disappearance. The chief 
told him he thought she could be found, and referred 
him to Special Officer Turpin. 

“Dick Turpin,” as he was usually termed by the 
rough class, had not been a year on the force, but his 
shrewdness and strict attention to business anid the 
discharge of his duty had made him a man who was 
mortally feared by criminals, while his natural geni- 
ality of manner and his general temperament had 
won for him the respect and admiration of his breth- 
ren and made him a general favorite with them all. 

Mr. Quimby appeared at the office of the great de- 
tective. He found the man busily engaged with a 
pile of documents. On his entering the detective 
turned on him a pair of piercing gray eyes. Mr. 
Quimby asked: 

“Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Turpin, the 
detective?” 

“Tam he. To whom am I indebted for the pleas- 
ure of this visit?” 

The banker handed him his card. 

Ah!” said the detective. “Mr. Quimby, the 
banker.” 

“Yes, and I would like you to take a case for me 
if you are not busy.” 

“Well, I have a case on hand, as you see, but I 
think I can take another,” said' ithe detective. 

“Very well, sir. My daughter—my adopted 
daughter—is missing She disappeared very strange- 
ly from her ‘home yesterday.” 

“Disappeared?” 

“Ves, sir, and in order that you may fully under- 
stand the case, I will have to tell you my story.” 

“Very well, sir, Let me have all ithe facts, and al- 


88 


ways remember that whatever you may tell me will 
simply be in the strictest confidence, and as such I 
shall hold it sacred.” 

The banker began and told the detective the cir- 
cumstances with which the reader is aquainted, 
from the itime Viola had come into ‘his family, until 
her disappearance. When'he had finished the detec- 
tive sat quite still, looking thoughtfully at the car- 
peted floor. Finally ‘he said: 

“You say she did not tell you anything of her for- 
mer life, except that her mother and father were both 
dead. Might there not’—anld here he gave the 
banker a keen look, as he began again. “Has it never 
occurred to you that there might be a, lover in the 
caser” 

This second mentioning of a lover in connection | 
with Viola and her strange disappearance seemed to 
give the case a startling significance. As the old 
man raised his head he answered: 

“No—no. I have never looked at the matter in 
that light,” he finally said. “You don’t know my 
dear girl, sir. She was very different from the girls 
in general and, besides if there had been anything 
of the kind, I think she wouid have told me.”’ 

The detective smiled cheerfully, rubbing ‘this hands 
vigorously, and said in a pleasant manner: 

“Very well, sir; I will undertake your case and I 
will have good news for you soon.” 

The banker arose and moved toward the door. 
When he had laid his ‘hand on the knob he turned: 
“Oh, by the bye. You haven’t said anything about 
your pay.” 

“Oh, never mind, sir, never mind. We’ll speak 
about that when my work is ‘done” 


89 


“You shall be amply remunerated if you succeed. 
Good morning.”’ 

“Good morning.” 

Five days had elapsed since Viola had been a pris- 
oner in the ‘house by the river. She had pleaded for 
her liberty, implored, stormed and threatened, but it 
had done no good. Hope had given place to despair. 
She hald made up her mind to meet the issue, what- 
ever it might be, bravely. Her tormenter had been 
to see her this morning and had begged her to be- 
come his wife, and hhad left her in anger, because of 
her refusal. He told her to prepare herself, for on 
the morrow she would have to become his wife. 

She was sitting now on one of the hard stools, try- 
ing to be resigned to her fate, but there was a dull 
pain at her heart when there came a light step in the 
hall. Vhe knob turned in the door and a young 
woman entered. Viola sprang to her feet; her heart 
leaped with great joy. She was to be free at last. 

“Miss Mona! Oh! Merciful Father in Heaven, 
I thank Thee!” she cried, joyously. “Oh! I am so 
glad you have come to deliver me from that villain 
——that fiend in human shape. How is father and 
mother?” she continued, breathlessly. “Are they 
anxious about me? Oh! Takemetothem. Please 
do, and I will bless you as long as [| live.” 

And the poor girl—poor, because her joy was 
soon to be turned into the bitterness of death— 
clasped the haughty Mona Hawthorne about the 
knees and sobbed for very joy. 

“Why, my dear girl,” said Mona, mockingly, “you 
seem to have very pleasant quarters ‘here. How do 
you like them? True, your furniture is rough, but I 
presume your husband that is to be will refurnish 
your apartments when you are settled down,” 


90 


Viola had slowly risen to her feet and was leaning 
on the back of a chair for support. Her eyes had 
become black as midnight with ‘horror. What did 
it mean? Did Miss Mona—was it possible that she 
did not come to release her—that she even knew 
something about her imprisonment, perhaps. But 
no, no! Perish the thought! No woman with a 
spark of feeling for her sex would stand quietly by 
and see one of her fellows imprisoned and forced’ into 
an unwilling alliance with a man from whom her 
whole soul recoiled in loathing. 

“Wihat—what is it you say, Miss Mona?” she ask- 
ed, in piteous perplexity. “I—lI don’t seem to quite 
understand you.” 

Mona rippled out a little tinkle of silvery laughter 
and said: 

“What! My dear little woman, I thought I spoke 
plainly enough. I say I hope you will be happy with 
your young husband, who loves you dearly. Pray 
accept my heartiest congratulations. If it were not 
that Iam so happy in the love of Bertram, my be- 
trothed, I should surely envy you your good for- 
tune.” 

“Then you did not come to release me? Oh, Miss 
Mona!” she said, almost in a whisper. The awful an- 
guish and hopeless misery in her voice as she gave 
utterance to this would have melted 'the heart of a 
stone, but unfortunately Mona’s heart was made of 
harder material than stone, and she did not notice it. 

“Come to release you!” she said, in mock surprise. 


“How could I presume ‘to intrude into this paradise’ 


of love When Mr Arnold Campbell’— 
“Do not mention his name to me!” cried Viola, 
stung into madness by the heartless woman’s taunts. 


QI 


“Don’t you dare do it! I—I hate him, loathe him 
and you, too. And I believe you have had a hand in 
this outrage. You know more about it than you care 
to admit.” 

Mona had started! back quite frightened before 
this burst of indignation. She did not believe Viola 
had life enough in her for that. 

“My! What a regular little virago you are. Mr. 
Campbell, your intended husband, will have to bring 
that little temper in check, or you will make it warm 
for him.” 

“Leave me to my misery, you wicked woman. 
Why did you come here?” 

An angry fire flashed into the eyes of Mona. 

“Why did I come here?” she echoed, advancing 
meaningly up to the girl. “Shall I tell you? Well, 
then, ‘hear me. It was to triumph over you, my rival. 
I knew you were here. You are here by my instruc- 
tions. Nay! Hear me out. You were in my way. 
You won the love of my life from me, and I am deter- 
mined on revenge. I tell you this because I am now 
safe in the love of Bertram Heathcourt, and on the 
fifteenth of this month will become the wife of his 
bosom. Now, listen. Your lover was never false to 
you. Ah, ha! You started the rivalry which almost 
broke my heart strings. I shall wring your heart 
strings as mine have been wrung. I wrote that letter 
telling you that he never did love you; that hence- 
forward you would meet as strangers. He never re- 
ceived your letter. I have it in my possession now. 
How I got it matters not. He now believes that you 
are dead, and in less than a fortnight I shall be his 
wife. While you (with a dazzling smile) will be ditto 
of Mr. Arnold Campbell. You see, little Viola, I 


Q2 


have triumphed, and there is no use to kick against 
the pricks. You had better accept your fate with 
good grace, and make the best of circumstances.” 

Viola never moved. She had been looking straight 
before her since the beginning of Mona’s story. She 
had become pale to the lips. Her eyes were dilated 
with horror at the enormity of the sin of the woman 
whom she believed at most to be proud and haughty. 

“My dear,” continued Mona. “Why do you look 
like that? You quite frighten me. You do not look 
very much like a prospective bride.” _ 

“So you deceived me,” murmured Viola, brokenly. 
“And he was true to me! He meant it when he said 
‘thhat he loved me. He was not doing it to pass away 
the time?” 

“No, he was not doing it PASSER LE TEMPS. 
But so far as you are concerned he might as well have 
done so. Well,’ said Mona, as she moved toward the 
door. “I must leave you, my dear. I will not see 
you for—oh! ever so long After our wedding tour, 
I may drop in to see you. So, au revoir.” She paused 
on the threshold of the door as if to take one last 
look, and what she saw never left her mind until her 
dying day. 

Viola was acting as if she did not hear her—was 
not even aware of her presence. She was murmuring 
over and overagain: “Bertram did mean it. He was 
not fooling. He loved me.” 

Suddenly, and while Mona was still looking at her, 
she started toward the table and, snatching up a fork 
that was lying cn the plate from which she had eaten 
her dinner, said: “Good bye, Bertram, my lost love; 
I will never see you again. I love you! Oh! so well. 
Mother, dear mother, I will soon be with you,” And 


93 


before the astonished Mona could do anything to 
prevent it, she had raised her hand and buried the 
fork in her breast up to the hilt. 

“Great God!” exclaimed the guilty woman. “The 
girl has killed herself!” 

She stood stark still, gazing hike one fascinated at 
the crimson stream oozing from the tender breast 
of that prostrate figure. Like a flash it suddenly 
occurred to her that she was the cause of this poor 
girl’s death, and therefore she was a— 

“No, no, not that!’ she cried aloud. ‘Father in 
Heaven! What am I?” ! 

“A murderess!’” was whispered in her ear. 

She wheeled about with a stifled cry, but there 
was no one in the room but herself and that pale, 
dead figure. 

“Who spoke’ she demanded, sharply, but an 
empty echo was her only answer. “My imagination 
is playing me pranks.” 

She went from the room and soon returned with 
old Madge. 

“The girl has killed herself. Attend to her at once, 
and let some of the men about the yard bury her at 
once.” 

With some difficulty the woman succeeded in get- 
ting Viola on the bed, and had soon completed the 
last sad duty we can perform for the dead. 

“Poor Viola! She deserved a better fate. It did 
not seem posstble that the end had come to one so 
young, so good and true. Poor, helpless girl!’ 


{ 


94 
GHAPT BH Rex's 


Mona’s Conscience. 


Mona had returned to her home that night and 
fearful thoughts were ‘haunting her. She could not 
vanish from her mind that last despairing cry of the 
poor, innocent young girl whom she had so terribly 
wronged. She made an excuse to ‘her mother and 
after eating a very light supper retired. But not to 
sleep. Sleep, that blessed boon which brings rest and 
peace to the innocent would not bring oblivion to her 
guilty mind. She undressed ‘herself and laid down. 
She would ever and anon drop off into a fitful slum- 
ber, only to start up again with a smothered cry, as 
a voice seemed to whisper: ‘““Murderess!” from under 
her pillow. Finally she arose, and robing herself in a 
wrapper, threw up the window, drawing a chair close 
to the side of it, sat down to look out. 

In one of the trees a night bird was singing, but 
its lovely notes seemed to her excited’ fancy to be 
crying in harsh tones: ““Murderess! Murderess!’ 
In the grass on the lawn beneath her a cricket took 
up the strain of “Murderess! Murderess!” 

“Oh, Heaven! will those terrible sounds never 
cease?’ she moaned and closing the window with a 
bang, she arose and began pacing restlessly to and 
fro, until a faint gray streak came stealing through — 
the window and she knew that day was breaking. She 
threw herself across the bed and finally dropped into 
a kind of deep apathy, which lasted’ until late in the 
day. 


95 


Madge, the old hag, ‘had sat by Viola’s corpse all 
night. 

The next morning Campbell arrived. He came 
eagerly into the room, expecting to find Viola ready 
to give him an affirmative ‘answer, recognizing how 
useless it was to defy him. But he was horrified, 
amazed, when on entering the room, he found Madge 
sitting by the side of the bed and on the bed, with 
her hands folded’ peacefully on her breast, lay Viola, 
cold and still. 

He could not believe that he saw aright. He 
rubbed his eyes, and pinched ‘himself to see if it was 
not some horrible dream. 

“What’s—what’s the matter, Madge?” he stam- 
mered. “What does this mean?”’ 

“Tt means that the gal’s dead,’ was the short an- 
swer. 

“Dead!” he cried, hollowly. “Viola dead! How— 
Good God! Who did it? Woman!” he said suddenly 
seizing her arm in a vise-like grip. “How did this 
thing happen? Answer me,” he continued fiercely. 
“Did you do it?” | 

“Turn me a loose,” snarled the old woman. “What 
you spose I want to kill her for. No, I didn’t do it. 
She ‘did it herself.” 

The man stood like one stricken dumb. Viola 
killed herself? And—Great Heaven! He had goaded 
the poor girl to her doom. 

He suddenly cast himself across the prostrate form 
and groaned remorsefully at the thought of what he 
had done. Then! calling on her by every endearing 
name to come back to him, to forgive him for the 
wrong he had perpetrated upon her, but there was 
no movement made by poor Viola, 


96 


He finally arose, and asked the woman, who had 
been standing near, looking at him with a cynical 
expression on her ugly visage, how it had happened. 

She told him all she knew about it. How Mona 
had visited the girl and after staying in the room a 
considerable length of time, came to her and in-_ 
formed her that the girl had killed herself. 

“So she was here, eh,’ he muttered under his 
breath. “I wonder if she could—but no. The girl 
was safe from ever molesting her in her love affairs, 
and it would be foolish to think that she would do 
such a thing.”’ 

He finally left the old woman alone with the 
corpse. In half an hour he put' his head in the door 
and said: 

“Madge, I am going to town after a coffin to bury 
the girlin. I shall return this afternoon.” 

VAM right, sir.” 

Madge sat quiet for an hour or two, and then she 
began to feel hungry. She remembered that she had 
not left the room since the afternoon of the previous 
day. 

“Tl step out and get a bite; it won’t, take long.” 
So saying, she hobbled from the room. 

Three minutes passed and a panel in the wall slid 
back, and into the room a woman stepped cautiously. 
She was tall and dark, with black hair and eyes of the 
same hue. There were lines as of trouble around her 
sweet mouth and eyes, but despite that fact she 
seemed to have been once a very beautiful woman. 
She advanced cautiously to the side of the bed and 
gazed long and earnestly at the girl. 

“How beautiful! How very beautiful!’ she said. 
“And they hounded her down, poor creature, as they 


By 


attempted to hound me—but” she paused. Was she 
mistaken? She thought she saw the lace at the 
throat of 'the girl move. It was only imagination. 
No! There it is again! She bent over closer and 
examined the girl’s face. Then she put out her hand 
and pinched that of the girl. It did not remain 
pinched and puckered like that of a dead person’s, 
but the flesh came back into its place just like elastic. 
The woman tried the other hand! in the same manner, 
with a like result. Her face lit up radiantly. 

“Not dead,” she murmured, joyously. “I think I 
can save her if I begin at once.” | 

And with incredible strength for a woman she bore 
her through the open panel and shoved it into its 
place. 

About five minutes elapsed, at the end of which 
time Madge returned to the room. When she looked 
in and saw that the body of the girl had disappeared, 
she was almost wild with superstitious wonder. 
Where had! she gone? Where could she go? She 
looked under the bed,and opening the shutters of the 
window, looked out, but nothing rewarded her gaze. 
She searched every room through and through, but 
no Viola could ‘be found. 

“T don’t’ believe that gal was dead. She’s been a 
playin’ possum on us. But—I could a’swore she 
was acorpse. Mr. Arnold will be wild when he finds 
out she’s gone.” 

And she sat down on a chair by the window and 
waited patiently for his return. 

Meanwhile the strange woman had borne Viola 
through the panel, and after sliding it back into its 
place, walked along the narrow passage until she 
eame to a flight of stairs. Ascending these she 


98 


walked along another passage until she came to a 
wall. Pressing her finger on a small button another 
panel slid back, which she closed after passing 
through. She entered a room that was poorly but 
comfortably furnished. A clean white bed and a ta- 
ble, a few chairs, a stove, lamp, trunk, cupboard and 
washstand constituted its furnishings. 

The woman lay her burden tenderly on the bed, 
took a flask containing brandy and another of cam- 
phor from the cupboard, and for two hours worked 
vigorously on the girl, bathing her hands and face 
in the camphor, and administering the brandy. A 
while after she noticed the chest of the girl begin- 
ning to rise and fall, as if in respiration. Soon there 
was a little movement of the hand and a long-drawn 
sigh,accompanied by a quivering of the eyelids, which 
announced that Viola ‘had at last come out of her 
trance. She struggled feebly to rise, but the attempt 
was a failure, and she sank back, gasping for breath. 
The woman raised the pillow under her head and 
otherwise made her position more comfortable. She 
stood with her hand resting lightly on the girl’s head 
with a soothing, magnetic touch. Viola lay quiet, 
with her eyes closed. Presently she stirred, and when 
the woman removed ther hanid, she let her gaze wan- 
der around the room, as if taking in every detail. 

“Where am I?” she asked, feebly, passing her hand 
slowly over her eyes. “And why am I here?” 

The woman put her finger to her lips as if to en- 
join silence. 

“Hush, my dear child,” she said, in a sweet voice 
that won Viola’s heart on 'the spot. “You must re- 
cover as fast as you can, and the only way to do so ~ 
is by keeping very quiet, and when you get better | 
will tell you all about it.” 


99 


So saying, she drew a,chair to the bedside, and 
taking Viola’s hand in hers, she stroked it caress- 
ingly. Viola felt a strange sense of comfort and pro- 
tection in this woman’s presence. She did not ques-- 
tion further. She only realized with a wild joy that 
in some miraculous manner she had escaped from the 
clutches of her enemies. And so, under the soothing 
touches of this kind woman, she soon dropped into 
a light and refreshing sleep. 


100 
CHAPEER? 20y: 
Viola Not A Suicide. 


That afternoon Arnold drove up to the door of the 
old river house in a covered wagon which, it is need- 
less to say, contained a coffin. He jumped from the 
wagon, hastened into the house and toward the room 
where he had left, as he supposed, the corpse of little 
Viola. The woman had heard his footsteps in the hall 
and had come to meet him. He saw by the expression 
of ‘her face that something out of the ordinary had 
happened. He thought probably—and here his heart 
gave a wild bound—that Viola had, after all, only 
been in a deep swoon, and had recovered. 

“Well?” said he, inquiringly to her. 

“[—I—that is—Mr. Arnold, the fact is, something 
very peculiar has happened.” 

“wes,” ‘hesaid, ‘eagerly. 0) Whatiussirt 

“Well, sir,” continued the woman, as if she did not 
know how to begin. “I—TI just stepped out ‘to get a 
mouthful of something to eat, and when I come back, 
why—why’’— 

“Yes, she had recovered?” 

“Who said anything about her bein’ recovered?” 

Arnold’s heart sank like lead. He felt like throt- 
tling the woman for having even unconsciously 
raised false hopes in his breast. 

“Why don’t you speak?” the demanded, angrily. 
“Why do you stand there looking at me like one just 
awakened from a dream?” 

“La sakes! I wish it wor a dream. Somethin’ wuss 
dan a dream has happened.” 

A horrible fear began tugging at his heart-strings, 
as he asked, ‘huskily: 


IOI 


“What has happened, Madge? For God’s sake, 
tell me!” 

“Well, the truth of the matter is, the gal’s gone.” 

“Gone! How could such a thing have happened? 
You must be mistaken.” 

“T doesn’t know how it happened. All I know is 
that when I’d come back from eatin’ my dinner, she 
was gone. You can see for yourself.” 

Arnold pushed her roughly aside and strode into 
the room and was profoundly surprised. He stood 
as if thinking deeply. Finally he said: 

“How is it, Madge? I can’t understand it. She 
must have been taken from the room by some out- 
sider. For that she was dead I will swear.” 

“Yes, sir, she was dead, and! that’s a’fack. And 
Jewhilikens!” asf she had found a solution of the 
mystery, continued: “I bet a dollar some dratted 
detective has ’skivered' her whereabouts and tooken 
her back home. You say her folks is rich. I guess 
they must’ a hired him to find her.” 

Arnold seemed to be of the same opinion, for he 
said, reflectively: , 

“T think that is about the size of it. But in order 
to make sure I will go to the city and to-night I will 
take a survey of the house and find out.” 


k > > * *K > k * 


Viola slept all that night anda portion of the next 
day, and when she awoke she felt strengthened, and 
announced her intention to the woman of getting 
up. She saw that Viola was really looking better, 
and gave a ready consent. The woman assisted her 
to dress, and by the ‘time that was completed, break- 


102 


fast was ready, and after she had placed it on the 
table they sat down to the tempting repast. When 
breakfast was finished and the things stowed away, 
they sat ‘down by the window and began chatting 
pleasantly, both avoiding as if by tacit agreement to 
speak of things nearest the minds of each. Directly 
the woman said: 

“Dio you know, my dear, that you look strangely 
like some one whom I[ have known. Your face very 
forcibly reminds me of him or her. Who it is I can- 
not recall now.” 

“Do I? said Viola, with a smile. “I hope it is like 
some one you loved. For, oh, dear lady, I would like 
to have you love me. Please forgive me for saying 
it, but I love you so much.” 

“Do you really love me, my dear, after such a 
short acquaintance?” 

“Ido,” said Viola, earnestly. “Indeed, I]: do. And 
that reminds me, you have never told me your 
name.” 

The woman remained silent for a while anid then 
Saidsat 

“Call me Mrs. Smith.” 

“Now, Mrs. Smith,’ said the girl, softly, “couldn’t 
you love me a lit'the—just a little?” 

Mrs. Smith, for that we ‘shall call ‘her, smiled in 
spite of herselfiat the girl’s earnestness, and answered 
warmly: 

“Indeed, you dear little creature, I could and do 
love you already.” 

A light came into.'the girl’s face ,and she impul- 
sively leaned forward anid grasped the hand of her 
companion and imprinted a kiss thereon. And thus 
they sat for several minutes, clasping each other’s 


103 


hand in loving confidence. And so by that token 
did these two women, who had come into each 
other’s lives so strangely, seal a friendship that all 
the vicissitudes of their after lives could not break. 

After remaining quiet for some minutes, Viola 
ventured to ask: 

“Mrs. Smith, how came I ‘there—in this house?” 

Mrs. Smith said, ‘as she smiled: “You will have to 
ask that arch plotter downstairs how you came to be 
in'the house. Nay, do not be frightened, my dear,” 
for Viola had started to her feet with a startled 
look in ther eyes, when she found out she was still in 
the same house. “You are perfectly safe from ‘him. 
I have been living ‘here for ten years, anid nobody 
knows of my being here, not even the other inhabit- 
ants of the house.” 

“But—but how do you manage 'to keep them in 
ignorance of your presence here?” asked Viola, in 
astonishment. 

“That is easily explained. See here,” and she arose 
and went to the wall, pressed a button and a panel 
slid back in its ‘socket. “You see, my dear, this is a 
secret apartment. I do not know what it was built 
for, but I discovered it here years ago, when tired, 
footsore and weary, I had stepped into this dilapi- 
dated old building to rest.” 

Viola looked at the place with great interest. She 
had never seen, never heard of anything like it be- 
fore. The woman continued: 

“You see that passage; that leads tio a pair of 
stairs; descending those stairs you come to another 
secret passagie, that subsequently leads to a subter- 
ranean vault or tunnel. Follow this tunnel for two 
or three hundred yards and you will come out at a 


104 


small cave on the river. By the way, you see I pro- 
cure work from several families hereabouts and am 
enabled to earn a livelihood. I come and' gio when I 
please, without any one being the wiser. 

She closed the panel and returned to her seat be- 
side the wondering girl. “You are wondering? I 
can see it in your eyes. How came I 'to take up my 
abode here? Would you like to‘hear my story?” 

“ft would, ever so much, if it does not pain you to 
peat... 

“Indeed, it does not. It has been such a long time 
since I’ve had any one with whom to exchange con- 
fidences that it is rather a relief than otherwise to be 
able to unburden my mind of its weight tio some one 
whom I can trust. It ts alla case of man’s duplicity, 
woman’s weakness and suffering, on account of an 
imprudent folly,” she said, sadly. 

Viola clasped her hand and then gave it a reassur- 
ing pressure, and then began ‘to listen tio the most 
remarkable story of her life. 


_- Pony 


105 
Chiat ire Renan vel 


Mrs. Smith’s Story. 


“In the village of B I lived when quite a small 
girl, with my father, who was a simple gardener. I 
was a very happy girl Though far from being rich, 
we managed to live comfortably, and my mother 
being dead, I was ithe light of my father’s life and 
loved him dearly I grew from girlhood into young 
womanhood, and people all called me beautiful. 

“There was in the woods a great old ‘tree known 
throughout the settlement as the ‘Old Elm. It was 
strange that almost all the trees in the woods were 
beach, and ‘there was not another of its kind to be 
found around the village. But it stood in the midst 
of the other trees; tall and majestic, like a grim sen- 
tinel, spreading its huge arms out over the others in 
its vicinity, as if in protection. It was my chief de- 
light to take a novel or some other interesting book 
in the afternoon anid sit under its delightful shade to 
read and dream One day while I was so engaged | 
did not notice that the sky had suddenly become 
overcast presaging one of our Southern storms, until 
the drops began to fall thick and fast. I simply had 
on a thin dress anda straw hat I surely would have 
been the recipient of a good drenching and probably 
caught my death of cold, had not a young man, 
whom I recognized as the eldest son of the leading 
personage in our town, passed opportunely and see- 
ing my condition, offered tio see me in safety to my 
home. I need not tell you of the frequent meetings 
under tthe old elm; of 'the honeyed words and confi- 
dences exchanged. Suffice it to say that when the 
summer had gone and the leaves began to fall from 


106 


the trees, I had promised to be the wife of the son of 
the purse-proud millionaire. 

In the meantime the younger son of this Penne 
man had met me on several occasions and said he 
had fallen in love with me. He proposed and I 
rejected him. He stormed; I threatened and defied 
him. He asked me why I would not marry 
him. I ‘told him that I loved! another. Then the 
pleaded by the right of his love to know who it was. 
I told him that it was ‘his brother. I never shiall for- 
get the look of murderous hate that came into his 
countenance. I shivered with fear when I saw it. 
It was terrible. But secure in the love of the man 
who was all the world to me, this deadly threats of 
vengeance did not long remain in mind. 

“One day I received a letter from my loved one, 
asking me to meet him the next night by the ‘Old 
Elm’ and flee with him. I knew that it was not a 
prudent thing to do, but what girl with the glamour 
of love over her eyes listens to the reasonings of her 
own mind ‘or her commion sense? It is certain that 
T did not. I sat down and wrote him a loving assent, 
and the next evening met him at the place named, 
and before six hours had! rolled over our heads we 
were married. : 

“The next day my husband left me in a little cot- 
tage and returned home. Ina few days he came back 
and said he had come to remain with me for a whole 
week. We went into the garden after awhile and 
were lovingly examining some flowers together when 
who should drive up to the door but the father and 
brother of my husband. The stern father denounced 
his son and ‘heaped reproaches upon him and cursed 
him. And as I stood trembling at his side, I could 


107 


see the wicked exultation in the face of my brother- 
in-law, the father’s threats occurred to me wtih full 
force, and I knew that in some way he had found 
out about our elopement and betrayed us. 

“My husband after this seemed cheerful enough, 
and as he was not altogether dependent upon his 
father’s bounty, we managed 'to get along immensely. 

“A year passed swiftly by. In the meantime God 
had sent into my life'a little treasure in the shape of 
a son. After he was given to me my real trouble be- 
gan. My ‘husband began ‘to grow morbid and cold. 
I could see that everything was not going right. [ 
did not complain, however, but took renewed pleas- 
ure in the presence of my boy. One day, during his 
absence, I received a message that I supposed to be 
from him, requesting me to meet him. Leaving my 
baby boy in charge of the nurse, I repaired to the 
place mentionedin the letter. And my dear, I never 
saw my child or my husband from that day to this. 
When I stepped into the carriage ‘sent for the pur- 
pose, I was seized by strong ‘hands and a cloth placed 
over my mouth. I lost consciousness. When I awoke 
to my surroundings I was aware of being in a room 
with grated doors and windows. Strange, wild cries, 
screams, the babble of silly voices and demoniac 
laughter could be theard on all sides. My child, I 
knew, though I had never been in one before, that I 
was in a lunatic asylum. And ‘the horror of finding 
out that I had been entrapped into such a place 
almost killed me. ; 

“I staggered to my feet in terror and confronted 
my enemy, my husband’s brother. I need not ‘tell 
you how I pleaded with him, threatened and begged 
him for my liberty, but he only taunted, sneered anid 
laughed alt my misery. 


108 


“Wihen I saw that he was so utterly heartless [ be- 
came indignant and heaped reproaches on him. He 
said tome: ‘My dear Doris, you must not blame me 
for the part that I have played in this affair, for | 
assure you that I am not the prime mover in it.’ | 
indignantly demanded’ to know who was, and he an- 
swered: ‘Your own husband.’ I never shall forget 
the horror with which I heard those awful words, 
never! My husband, whom I believed so good, true, 
and honorable! My husband, whom I loved so dear- 
ly, and whom I knew loved me so well! But why 
should he do such a wicked thing, and what was his 
object. 

“T stood there, speechless. My tongue refused to 
do its work. It seemed as if a hand of iron were 
clutching at my meart. At last I managed to gasp 
and then said, sternly: ‘I do not believe it; my hus- 
band loved me, and he would never be a party to such 
devilish work.’ ‘All right, my dear,’ answered my tor- 
mentor with taunting coolness, ‘but your incredulity 
does not alter the state of affairs in the least. Now 
listen. Your husband truly loved you when he mar- 
ried you, but his was not the love of a lifetime, such 
as I offered you, and which you rejected with scorn. 
My brother was not born to be a poor man and when 
my father disinherited ‘him, he began to hate you be- 
cause of the blight you hadi cast over his life. He 
soon grew ‘tired of you, andi as he did not care to 
stain his soul with a worse crime, he had you ab- 
ducted and brought here.’ 

“Tt was such a ridiculous story that I could not re- 

press a smile, in spite of my terrible situation. The 
idea of my husband being: guilty of such a plot 
against the wife he had sworn to cherish was simply 


109 


absurdity personified. I wonder how it is that God 
did not strike him dead for telling such a lie. 

“He saw the smile and it seemed to madden him. 
‘You do not believe it!’ ‘Do you think I would so 
wrong my husband even in thought as to entertain 
such an idea for an instant?’ ‘Read that, then’ he said, 
snatching a letter from his pocket and tossing it to 
me, ‘and see if it does not change your views in 


regard to your husband’s character.’ I recognized 
the writing as that of my husband’s with a strange 


sinking of the heart. The letter was a short one, but 
oh. my Heavens! How it did shatter my love dream, 
my idol. 

“Tt was 'a neatly laid plan of how I was to be ab- 
ducted and sent to ‘the asylum, and after I was put 
out of the way my ‘husband was to marry a rich 
widow, who I remembered having seen to flirt with 
him on several occasions. “You know, Richard,’ it 
wound up, ‘that 1 cannot endure poverty, although 
I have put up with it with seeming good grace so 
far, and now when the opportunity presents itself to 
better myself, think you that I will hesitate for an in- 
stant to accept it, because one paltry hfe stands be- 
tween me and wealth? No! A thousand times no! 
The change will be better for my son. He will be 
brought up believing that my second wife is his own 
raother; he will never know the difference. And I 
believe that happiness is to come initio my life at last. 
It was alla mistake, from first to last, and | hope that 
in my new life I may be able to retrieve my lost ad- 
vantages. Do rot be tioo hard on Doris—poor Joris. 
I could not bear to see her again. Her sad, dark 
eyes would ever rise up before me in silent reproach. 

Fleming Heathcourt.’ 


IIo 


“That was all, my child, but who can describe the 
suffering it brought to me. I was faint and dizzy at 
the knowledge of my husband’s baseness. It was all 
a mistake, his having married me, and oh! the pity of 
it—my child, my darling baby—was never to know 
its real mother. To be brought up in ignorance of 
her very existence. I wonder why it did not drive 
me mad. But it did not. Nor did the other horrors 
that are presented ‘to inmates of a lunatic asylum 
drive me mad. I stayed there for fifteen years— 
hiteen long, weary years, and when one night the 
asylum caught fire and I escaped, I was 'the same in 
mind as you, or as [am at this moment.” 


FI 
CHARGE Rea VII: 
Mrs. Smith And Viola. 


The woman during the narrative had been looking 
out of the window, her sad, dark eyes wandering off 
from the broad expanse of water to hazy mountains 
in the distance. Therefore she did not see Viola, at 
the mention of the name “Heathcourt,” give a start 
of surprise, and bend forward with renewed interest 
and gaze scrutinizingly at her face, and also the light 
ofa sudden conviction that broke over her. 

After a short pause, Viola said, tremulously: 

“Poor Mrs. Smith! How you must have suffered! 
“But,” she continued, earnestly, “I do not believe 
ycur husband cid such a wicked thing. It was alla 
plot against the nappies of you both, by that vil- 
lainous brother of his.” 

A radiant expression came into the face of Mrs. 
Smith for an instant, then receded, leaving it its- 
usual marble-like whiteness. 

“No, my dear child,” she said, smiling sadly. “You 
do not know. I believe that for once in his life Rich- 
ard Heathcourt told the truth—that my husband had 
ceased to love me. Andi besides, the letter was in 
his handwriting. I recognized it as such. There 
could be no mistake.” 

“Tt might have been and I believe it was, a 
forgery,’ said Viola, emphatically. “I do not believe 
that your husband, whom I imagine to be good and 
true, would have done such a thing. It was a forgery. 
such things have been done.” 

She spoke with a little bitterness in her voice for 
she remembered Mona’s words in which she acknowl- 
edged that she had forged the note that had blighted 
her happiness. 


II2 


~The woman stooped and pressed'a kiss on the brow 
of the girl “My child’ she murmured ‘tremulously, 
“vou have made me feel better than you know. You 
have given me hope. Hope that after all these years 
of sorrow and suffering that a great wrong may yet 
be righted—that I may be restored to my loved 
one.” 

“We shall begin,” said Viola, twining her arms 
softly about 'the woman’s neck, “‘we shall begin right 
away to bring that villain to justice—just as soon’ as 
we can escape from here. But—but you didn’t finish 
your story.” 

“There is very little more to ‘tell, my child. I 
escaped, as I told you and came here, tired of my 
weary tramp, and ‘hungry. The next day I discovered 
this secret apartment, and as | was feeling a little 
better, though still weak from want of food, I 
dragged myself over to yonder cottage. Do you 
see, through that cluster of trees? I asked them for 
food and work. They were very kind 'to me, and 
for a month I used to go 'there daily and work. After 
that time they trusted me and I was allowed to bring 
the work away anid do it here, although they do not 
even’ know where I live. So things continued for 
nine years. A year ago that man downstairs and a 
gang of men, whom I ‘have every reason to believe 
are counterfeiters, took up their abode here, and I 
had tio be particular not to be discovered. I had just 
returned home 'the other day, when, coming up the 
secret passage, I heard the voice of a young girl, 
speaking as if she had been made joyful by some 
event. There happened to be a small hole in the 
wall, where a pine knot had once been, and through 
that hole I saw you kneeling at the feet of that heart- 


oo 


113 


less young woman with the black eyes. I could not 
resist the temptation to hear what was being said, 
and the consequences are that I was able to save 
your life, and you will not have to tell me your 
story.” 

“Did you—did you ‘hear?’ faltered Viola, paling 
and flushing alternately at the knowledge that her 
secret had been betrayed. | 

“Yes, my child,” smiled Mrs. Smith, reassuringly. 
“All ‘but the name of the young man whom she had 
taken from, you so unfairly.” 

Viola gave a sigh of relief that the woman did not 
know who the young man was, anid she told herself 
that she would not reveal ‘his name. She would save 
the good news to add to the pleasure that Mrs. 
Smith would ‘have when the work that they both 
had tio do was finished. 


K *K *K * K *K * 


Arnold Campbell was in a plight. He ‘had gone to 
the city and loitered in the vicinity of the Quimby 
mansion all the next day, hoping to see something 
that would indicate to him that Viola had returned, 
dead or alive. But nothing rewarded his efforts. No 
graceful, airy figure had flitted from the open door 
or down the steps out on the lawn; no gay laugh- 
ter or merry songs hadi reached ‘his ears, telling him 
that she was alive and well. And’ yet no doctor’s 
conveyance had driven up to the curb, nor had there 
been any crepe fluttering from'the knob that would 
say to him in language too eloquent to be misunder- 
stood or ignored 'that she was dead. He had even 
ventured 'to inquire of the old gardener if any news 


114 


of the missing Miss Quimby had been received. But 
the garrulous old man had said that “nobody ever 
heard head nor tai! of her since she disappeared so 
strangely.” 

Arnold had also gone to the morgue and hospital, 
thinking that probably her dead body had been 
found, or that she ‘had been picked up unconscious, 
and taken to the latter place for treatment. But no 
one answering her description had been brought to 
either place. He might look ifthe felt like it, which 
he did, ‘but the result was just the same. In despair 
he turned his face toward the house of Mona Haw- 
thorne. 

He found that lady pacing restlessly up and down 
under ‘the great old cedars. Arnold acknowledged 
to himself that her appearance was not that of the 
best. She looked five years older than when he had 
last seen her. Her hair seemed as if it had not been 
attended to; her dress was shabby, ther face pale, her 
eyes had an underlying expression of terror in them 
that would not be banished, and ther whole appear- 
ance indicated a woman who hadi a ‘guilty, terrible 
secret, and one that could neither rest nor sleep in 
consequence. She came eagerly forward 'to meet 
him, although she couldn’t raise her eyes to his. 

“Well?” she said, inquiringly. 

Arnold thought that probably the young woman 
was fearful of being the cause of the young woman’s 
death, anid had taken some means of getting rid of 
the body in order ‘to cover up ‘her tracks. Therefore, 
he said, with as much sternness as he was capable: 

“You have made a pretty job out of this affair, 
haven’t your” 

The guilty woman started and trembled like an 


If5 


aspen. Did he know that she‘had been to the house? 
True, the woman knew, but she had never seen her 
before, and therefore did not know ther. She must 
find out how much he knew. So, recovering herself, 
she asked, laughingly: 

“What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean,” said he angrily, stung 
by her manner. “You know that you came to the 
river house yesterday and caused her death.” 

“It is false!” 

“It is true. You cannot fool me, Mona Haw- 
thorne. Why did you cause her death? Answer me! 
Why didi you do it?” 

He had advanced) upon her menacingly, his eyes 
blazing, his splendid physique trembling with pas- 
sion. 

Mona was frightened. What would he do? This 
man loved the girl. Would he betray her for the part 
she had played in it? Would ‘he avenge the girl’s 
death by informing Bertram of her sin? Oh horrors! 
Anything but that! There was madness in the 
thought. She must try to conciltate the man. 

“Arnold” she said, “I admit that I did go to the 
river house but I did not kill the girl. She commit- 
ted suicide. When she found I had not come to re- 
lease her, she—she became desperate.” 

“Ts that all?” sneeringly. 

“Yes,” eagerly coming forward. “And 
she—have they buried her?” 

Ee NGu: 

“And why?” with a frown. “Do yon want some- 
one to find out about her and begin making unpleas- 
ant inquiries. Why hasn’t she been buried?” 

“Because she is gone.” 


and, is 


116 


“What?” almost in a whisper. “I did not quite hear 
you. Dol understand you to say that she is gone?” 

“That was about the drift of my remarks.” 

“Gone! Gone! My God! And I—I!’ She stag- 
gered forward, groping blindly before her and clutch- 
ing wildly at the empty air, fell at his feet in a hud- 
dled heap. 

And for once in her life Mona Hawthorne had 
really fainted. 


117 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
Attempt To Escape. 


It is dark in the city of Washington, with excep- 
tion of the street lamps that are twinkling here and 
there. It is dark in the old river house to all ap- 
pearances. Any casual observer would! say that much. 
But it is not dark in the secret room of the old river 
house. On the contrary a light was burning brightly 
from a wax candle on the table. Viola was feeling 
very anxious as she sat on a chair with her ‘head rest- 
ing on her right hand. Mrs. Smith, after her con- 
versation with Viola, had appointed to-night for 
their escape. Viola, hungering to see ‘her father and 
mother and also some one else, eagerly acquiesced. 
But at the same time a heavy foreboding hung over 
her like a pall. She tried to shake it off, but could 
not. She could not get rid of the presen'timent that 
something was going tio happen. 

“Do you believe in presentiment of coming trouble, 
Mrs. Smith?” she asked that lady, who, by the way, 
was busy gathering together ther little effects, and 
transferring them to a small satchel. 

“What prompted you to ask that question, my 
dear?” 

“Because I have that strange feeling now and can- 
not get rid of it.” 

“Banish it, my dear. Shake it off. There is no oc- 
casion to fear anything. Nobody is aware of our 
presence here.” 

“T know that, but try as I will, I cannot banish it. 
I cannot but feel that—tha't we are going to be un- 
successful in our attempt to-night, or something else 
is going to happen to us.” 


118 


“I do not believe there is the least ground for such 
a feeling,” said the woman. “Nobody knows of the 
passage but ourselves, and at nine o'clock we will 
start for liberty.”’ 

The woman spoke hopefully, but at the same time 
she was feeling rather nervous. She would not 
acknowledge it, but she had that same feeling that 
Viola spoke of. And it seemed rather singular, 
indeed, that they both should be possessed with it. 

Taking a look into another portion of the old 
river house, in a room we see congregated a num- 
ber of men. The room is quite long and wide ac- 
cordingly. It is lighted by kerosene lamps that are 
affixed ‘to the wall, with tin reflectors behind them, 
in order to throw ‘the light out over the room. It 
isa peculiar room. There are work benches, moulds, 
steel plates, and in one corner a small forge. In the 
centre of 'the room is a long wooden table, around 
which the men are sitting, leisurely smoking their 
pipes, while others are playing cards and amusing 
themselves at other games. They have their faces 
covered with masks, behind which their features are 
effectually concealed. Directly one of the men arose 
and laying aside his pipe, picked up a gavel and rap- 
ping three times on the table, said, in a voice, though 
muffled and disguised, is strangely familiar: 

“Men, it is time we begin business.” 

The men proceeded to lay aside their occupations 
and give attention. 

“The first thing I want to say,’ continued the 
man, who seemed to be chief, “is that I failed on my 
last job.” 

Murmurs of discontent were ‘heard on all sides, 
and one, a little bolder than the rest, said: 


’ 


119 


“How is that, chief? How did you happen to 
fail?” 

“Well, you men went off on your own hooks and | 
had to employ strangers to do the job. They did 
not know the bearings of the old banker’s house, 
and the result was they botched the job and were 
caught.” 

“They were caught?” 

“Yes, they were caught and it was a close call in 
my getting away.” 

“Good!” exclaimed a few. “I am glad they were 
caught, for botching tthe job.” 

“It’s all very well to rejoice that they were caught, 
but you see, we missed the money in consequence.” 

“But, chief,’ said one speaker, rather anxiously. 
“Did you think they might squeal on us?” 

“No. Well, it doesn’t make any difference if they 
do. Their squealing would have no effect for the 
simple reason that they do not know me—never saw 
my face, and furthermore, do not know of the band. 
But, boys,” continued the chief, lowering his voice a 
trifle, “since you speak of squealing, there is some- 
thing of importance I want to tell you.” 

Instantly everybody was all attention. 

“Boys,” continued the speaker, and the trembling 
of his voice showed that he was greatly excited. 
“Boys, there is someone on our track—a spy.” 

There was a hoarse, angry roar, mingled with fear- 
ful oaths, anid the men were on their feet in a mo- 
ment, flourishing their revolvers in the air. 

“A spy! A spy!” 

“Who is he?” 

“Tell us who he is!” 

“Name him, chief!” 


oe 


—_— 
W 
oO 


“Knife the spy!” 

And all such angry exclamations arose at once. 

“Sh! Keep quiet, men, keep quiet. There is no 
occasion for such excitement now. ‘There is none 
here now, 'that is sure. The reason that I spoke of a 
spy is that on the night when I was giving orders to 
the men I imagined I heard a step in the copse where 
we were. Then I thought I heard a sound. The 
second time I gave orders to the men to search the 
copse, but we did not see any one. It was very sin- 
gular that when we went to crack the crib we found 
them prepared for us, and cops waiting to receive 
us.” 

“Ts that a fact?” 

“True as gospel.” 

“Then there was a spy, and we must never rest 
until we hunt him down. Have you any idea who he 
ISGiiey rs: 

“No. Well, that’s what we must find out. Now, 
remember, all spies shall be shot at sight. Are you 
all in favor of that measure?” 

es ten Vests 

“Down with the spies!” 

“Very well, then. Now we will proceed to the 
regular business of the meeting. 


k > * x x * k xk 


We find Mrs. Smith and Viola sitting with shawls 
around their heads and shoulders, the former with a 
satchel on her arm. A little clock on the shelf strikes 
nine. Mrs. Smith arises and taking up the wax can- 
dle, says: 

“It is time to start, My dear. Are you ready?” 


I2I 


“Yes,” answered Viola, tremulously. ‘“But—but, 
oh! Iam so frightened.” 

“There is no need of being frightened,” said Mrs. 
Smith, impatiently, and her sharp words brought 
tears to the eyes of the girl. 

“There, there, my dear,” said the Ee lady, “I re- 
egret very much that the sharpness of my speech has 
caused you to cry, but there is no occasion even for 
the least fear, indeed not. Come, we will go now.” 
So saying she picked up the candle and passing over 
to the panel, pressed the ‘button. The panel slid 
back, and they passed out, Mrs. Smith closing the 
panel after her. They went carefully along the long 
passage, and quietly down the stairs to another pas- 
sage. They went along this one about twenty feet. 

“We must go down another flight, and then we 
will be in the tunnel which will terminate at the river, 
and we will ‘be safe,” whispered the elder lady, en- 
couragingly, as she felt the girl shivering close to her 
side. She pressed another button and a second panel 
slid back. They went through as before, the elder 
closing it. They went slowly down the stairs. They 
were now in an underground passage, which was 
close and dark. The walls were of wood and the pas- 
sage was very narrow. Just as they put their feet on 
the floor, harsh angry cries reached their ears,coming 
right from the other side of the wall, just opposite 
them, 

“Oh!” cried Viola, in terror. ‘We ‘have been dis- 
covered! What shall we do?” 

An angry voice reached her ears just then, saying: 
“Down with the spies!”’ 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, let us run!’’ cried Viola, 
panic-stricken, and she turned to put her words inco 
action. 


122 


In some manner, just ‘how she could never tell, as 
she turned, her arm came in contact with tha't of the 
woman, and the candle fell to the floor with a loud 
noise. The glass candlestick, which held the candle, 
made a terrible noise, and the noise came to the ears 
of those on the inside. There arose an angry, mad- 
dened roar: 

“A spy!” Killthem!” “Down with the spy!” was 
heard. 

There was a series of vigorous blows against the 
partition, and as the partition was thin, it soon gave 
way. The next instant the excited men, with revol- 
vers in ‘hand, came pouring through into the tunnel. 


123 
GEAR TE RISX DX: 
Did Not Know His Love. 


Bertram Heathcourt was perplexed as to what 
course to pursue. Here the was to become the hus- 
band of Mona Hawthorne in five days, and he did not 
even love her. He not only did not love her but he 
found out that he lovedianother. Yes, loved another. 
Loved a woman he never saw but once and that at 
a distance, and who, as he thought, had never seen 
‘him. . 

Ever since Mr. Quimby’s daughter hadi passed 
him on the street he had been thinking of her. Her 
face ‘haunted him. He wanted to know more of her. 
When the went to Mr. Quimby’s house and found 
that she was missing, he was almost wild, although 
he held himself in control, and never by word or look 
‘betrayed to his old friend, the banker, that his heart 
was slowly but surely breaking. He called every day 
to learn if there was any news of the missing girl, 
only to hear with a heavy heart that there was none. 
He regretted a thousand times his hasty step in ask- 
ing Mona to be his wife, out of pity. What was she 
to him that he should waste the best years of his life 
to make her happy? he asked! ‘himself, regretfully, 
thinking of how happy he would be with Viola, 
should she put in her appearance. He could not un- 
derstand ‘himself or his love. Was he a fickle man, 
that his love could change with every pretty face he 
met? he asked himself in surprise ,and' yet he was sure 
that he had loved, and still did love, Viola. Every 
time he thought of her it was with the same yearning 
tenderness that he thought of the banker’s daughter. 
Why was it? Which did he love? These terrible 


124 


questions were unanswerable, and his attempting to 
answer them was telling on him daily. His steps grew 
slow and ‘halting, his brow was thoughtful, and the 
lines were becoming deeper and deeper on his noble 
forehead, and around his) handsome mobile mouth. 
E’ach ‘day that he called to see Mona she noticed that 
there was a slight increase iof silver threads among 
the gold of his hair, and ‘her heart smote her for an 
instant, only an instant, when she saw that he was 
becoming prematurely old. 

One morning Bertram called at the house of his 
betrothed, his face shining with a grim resolution. 
He had been sitting up all night, trying to solve this 
momentous problem of his life. Should he submit to 
this marriage and'so bring the curse of God on their 
heads? Should‘he spoil both their lives by doing this 
wicked thing? For since he had begun to think the 
matter over, he could see that it was wicked. 

Not to marry Mona was ‘his determination. He 
would go to Mona’s mother an‘di lay ‘his case before 
her, and if she was a woman with reason and a heart, 
she would see that the best ‘thing to do would be to 
release ‘him from the engagement, and she would do 
it. She could then explain all to her daughter, and 
that would save him the necessity of witnessing her 
sorrow, for he told himself he could not stand it. So, 
with a heart light with hope, he had gone this morn- 
ing to put his plan into operation. 

Mona ‘had been expecting ‘him. Therefore when 
he came she met him at the door anid admitted him. 
She was also expecting to have ‘him all to herself this 
morning. Bertram noticed the eager light in her 
eyes and suspecting that something was in the wind, 
pressed a cold kiss on her brow and made haste to 
inquire for her mother. 


125 


“T ‘have something to say to ‘her alone that is im- 
portant,” he said, in answer 'to ‘her look of surprise. 

“Oh! certainly,” she said, sweetly, ringing for a 
servant, “you can see mamma all you want, now, be- 


cause I will soon have you all to myself, and neither 
mamma nor any one else can come between us.” 


Bertram winced at these words and was rather 
glad when the servant came and announced the fact 
that Mrs. Hawthorne would see ‘him upstairs in her 
sitting-room, and straightaway the repaired to the 
place mentioned. 

“It’s very peculiar—very peculiar—that ‘he wants 
to see her, anid alone, too. He has always shunned 
her as much as possible since I told him about her. 
I must hear what it is he says, MUST. I believe that 
I am the subject of this interview. Strange—strange 
that I should feel that this is my very last happy day 
—that I shall never know another.” 

“There is only one thing that will make me un- 
happy, and if that should happen’—Mona stopped 
and drew a deep breath, and her face became abso- 
lutely fiendish in its expression. 

Suddenly she started and a low laugh was hissed 
from .between her livid lips—a laugh that would 
make little chills creep up one’s back, as if a blast 
had blown on one from an empty grave. 

“T must ‘hear what is being said,’ she muttered, in 
tense tones, and with that she flew up the stairs to a 
chamber adjoining her mother’s sitting-room and 
standing behind the ‘heavy velvet hangings that sepa- 
rated the apartment's she listened to her doom. 


126 
CHAPTER XX 
Bertram’s Mistake. 


Bertram found Mrs. Hawthorne robed in a pretty 
satin wrapper, with some fancy-work laying grace- 
fully across her lap. After the usual greeting he 
plunged without any preliminaries into the topic 
nearest his heart. 

“Mrs. Hawthorne I have come to you on a mis- 
sion of mercy.” 

“Ts 'that so?’ in surprise. “Well, state your mis- 
sion, and if it is reasonable, I shall be ‘happy to be 
merciful.” 

“Mrs. Hawthorne, I have discovered that 1 made 
a mistake in offering my ‘hand to your daughter. I 
do not love her.” 

The woman started violently. Her face turned an 
ashen-gray hue. There was a roaring in her ears, 
and it was by the mightiest effort of will that she 
kept from fainting. Recovering, she said coldly: 

“Sir! I do not understand you. I thought you 
loved my daughter, or else why did you win her heart 
and offer to marry her?” 

“Mrs. Hawthorne,” said Bertram, slowly. He was 
pained. How could he betray, even to the mother, 
the pleadings of the daughter for his love. It seemed 
to him) as if it should be ‘held sacred, but there was 
no other way to do. And so in a straightforward, 
modest way, he told her all, dwelling quite severely 
on the part that she had played in the affair as repre- 
sented by Mona. When he thhad finished she sa't look- 
ing straight before her, pale as a marble statue. 

“Did Mona, my own child, tell that wicked lie?” 
she asked, more to herself than to him. 


127 


“Lie! Good Heavens, Mrs. Hawthorne, what do 
you mean?” 

Mrs. Hawthorne aroused therself. There were lines 
of pain on her face, and for the first time in his life 
Bertram thought she looked noble. Noble she should 
look; noble she did look. For there was a noble reso- 
lution in her heart. If her daughter was wicked 
enough to tell so base a lie on the mother who bore 
her, lowering her and making her appear a con- 
temptible deceiver, then that daughter was not fit 
to be the wife of this good man—of any honest man. 

“Mr. Heathcourt, I am not a good woman, but [ 
love my daughter, and for her sake I have schemed 
and planned, done everything except actual sin to 
promote her welfare. I have done these things for 
her, not through any selfish motive—and the thanks 
I have received—Oh! Heavens! but it is hard! To 
think that my daughter, my own child, should lower 
me in the estimation of my acquaintances; should 
make me appear a liar anda cheat. Mr. Heathcourt, 
I have been cold to you when you were poor; mer- 
cenary toward you when you came into wealth, but I 
did not write that note to you; do not even know 
that you wrote one. I now pronounce my daugh- 
ter’s story a base, wicked fabrication, and I absolve 
you from your engagement with her. Go! You are 
free!” 

A't the same time there came to their ears a low 
moan, accompanied! by a heavy fall in the apartment 
adjoining and on appearing there found Mona in a 
dead faint on the floor, her hand clutching the lace at 
her throat as ifin agony. Tenderly Bertram placed 
her on the couch, and 'the maid, who had come in 
answer to the mother’s ring, began applying restora- 


128 


tives. It was a long ‘time before she regained con- 
sciousness. She finally opened her eyes, and as they 
fell on Bertram she gave utterance to a hard and 
bitter laugh. | 

“Why don’t you heap reproaches on my head: for 
the deception I practiced on you?’ she asked, 
harshly. 

He did not say a word. He only sat looking at 
her with a half-pitying expression on his face. 

“You'll never marry me now,” she said hungrily. 
“You hhate and despise me, don’t your” 

“No, Mona, I do not ‘hate you. But’— 

“You'll never marry me, so it is all the same. Now, 
listen tome. There is such a thing as a woman’s love 
being turned to hatred. I hate you just as truly as 
if you were the loathsome serpent that you are. Do 
youhear? Hate you! Hate you!” 

“Mona, for God’s sake, don’t speak that way.” 

“Tt is true. I ‘hate you! Bend down and let me 
whisper a few words to you.” She seized the lapel of 
his coat as she whispered in his ear. The effect was 
magical. 

Bertram started up, gasping for breath. The shirt 
he wore could not have been whiter than his face. 

“My God Mona!” the gasped. “It is untrue. I 
never will believe it.” 

“Tt is true. I knew it all the time. She has been 
a prisoner for days, and no one knows her fate but 
mes: 

“Tt is false. Viola is dead. I saw her dead body 
three months ago.” 

“You did!” mockingly. “I don’t see how that can 
be when you saw her alive and well the day she dis- 
appeared from the home of old Quimby, the banker.” 


ees: 


129 


“My God, Mona! Do you mean to say that they 
are one and! the same? Now I| understand why my 
heart should cling to both of them. Mona, for pity’s 
sake, tell me where my darling is.” 

This mentioning of his affection for the girl she 
hated so cordially seemed to madden the girl. 

“T will never tell you where she is—never,” she 
cried, fiercely. “You must ‘be mad to think I will 
give my rival into your arms to triumph over me, 
after all my scheming. Have you never heard those 
expressive words: ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman 
scorned?’ ” 

“Just Heaven! I cannot, WILL not believe that 
one so beautiful can be so false.” 

“Can’t your? Well, just listen while I tell you how 
false ve been. See if a woman can’t do or be any- 
thing for love and vengeance. When I found out 
that you really loved that pauper girl, Viola, I was 
determined to part you. So I wrote a letter to her, 
imitating your writing, telling her that you had been 
flirting with her and that you loved me, and that you 
were always 'to meet as strangers. She, poor little 
fool, believed that it was from you, and fled from her 
old home. The afternoon you saw her on horseback 
I was standing about forty feet from you, and I saw 
the effect it had upon you. By careful inquiry I man- 
aged to find out where she lived, and how came she 
there. Knowing that you would not rest until you 
saw her. I determined to remove her from your path. 
Fate favored me. That same afternoon something 
happened that saved me further trouble. That threw 
little Viola into my clutches, and! there she’ll stay, 
for nobody shall ever know her fate. Prison, tor- 


130 


tures, the rack, wild horses could not drag the secret 
from me.” 

There was a hollow groan behind them andi Bert- 
ram turned, and he had just time enough to put out 
his hanid and'save Mrs. Hawthorne from falling heav- 
ily to the floor. She ‘having ‘had occasion to leave 
the room had returned unperceived, and had heard 


131 
CHABRPWRe xT. 
Burglars Break In On Mrs. Smith And Viola. 


Mrs. Smith’s presence of mind did not desert her 
for an instant. When the very first blow was struck 
on the frail partition, she knew that she ‘had to act, 
and act quickly. So, seizing the girl by the arms, she 
shoved her under ‘the stairs which they had just de- 
scended. She was just preparing to follow herself 
when the angry men began pouring into the passage. 

Heaven only knows what would have happened if 
their anger had not given way to surprise. At sight 
of the woman, the men involuntarily halted, and 
stared at her aghast. They were so sure 1t was a man. 
They soon became repossessed with anger and made 
a combined rush toward her. 

“A: female detective! Slit her gullet!” 

“Hold!” 

The effect was electrical. The command rang out 
like a clarion. They were accustomed to obeying 
tha't voice when it washeard. And this occasion was 
no exception to the rule. The chief advanced, and 
turning to the men, said: 

“Do not injure the woman yet.”’ 

“But, chief,’ they all remonstrated, “we’ve just 
swore to kill all spies at sight.” 

“That’s it,’ answered 'the chief. “But is she a spy? 
Do not injure her yet. We'll carry her into the den 
and question‘her. If she does not give a satisfactory 
reason for being here, why, she’ll die, that’s all.” 

Viola, under the steps, heard: these terrible words 
with bated breath. She knew the woman would never 
tell why she was there, and the result would be death. 
A cold sweat broke out over her at the thought 


132 


of this innocent woman dying at the ‘hands of these 
cowardly assassins. So she made up her mind then 
and there that it should not be. If she could only slip 
out when they were not lookin'g, she could hurry and 
eet assistance. They had hurried the woman into 
the room, the chief bringing up the rear. Viola 
stooped to come from under the steps when a nail 
projecting from one of the boards caught her shawl 
and tore it, making the noise that cloth generally 
does when being torn. The chief heard the noise and 
turning before Viola could draw her thea'd back, saw 
her. 

“T will be with you directly, men.” 

So saying, ‘he drew his revolver and lifting the 
mask from his face ,that he might see better, came 
up to Viola’s hiding place. 

“You had just as well come out,” he said, when he 
reached the stairs. 

Receiving no answer and no movement being made 
about complying, he reached his hand under the nar- 
row steps, seized her by 'the wrist and pulled her out. 

“Let me go!” she cried, as though her heart would 
break, trying hard to conceal her features by wrap- 
ping the shawl about her face. 

“None of that. You might as well stop resisting. 
Tt will be” — 

He stopped. For he had torn the shawl from her 
face, and Viola stood revealed, alive and in the flesh. 

Arnold Campbell, for (as our reader ‘has long sus- 
pected) it was he, started back, his revolver dropping 
from his nerveless grasp. His face was very pale, 
and the distending of his eyes, which seemed to start 
irom their sockets, showed that he was gazing at the 
girl in abject terror. Fora full minute he stood look- 


Pit, 


133 


ing stupidly at her. Finally he said, in a husky whis- 
per: 

“You! Viola Dunkirk! I thought you were 
ead!” 3 

“I wish I were,” groaned the poor girl. “Oh! I 
wish I were. Father in Heaven let me die!” 

The man had now fully recovered from the shock 
of the meeting, and he saw the necessity of getting 
her out of the way before any of his pals saw her. So, 
taking her by the arm, he said: 

“Come along with me.” 

“T will not—I will scream for help.” 

He stooped and picked up his pistol and poirted it 
at her, while an angry gleam shot into his eyes, and 
said: 

“Ti you do not come with me without any trouble 
I will-kill you where you stand.” 

Viola like the most of women was mortally afraid 
of a pistol and it proved more of a persuader than 
anything else that could have been done. 

“Don’t! Don’t point it at me!’ covering her face 
with her ‘hands that she might not ‘see it. “I will 
do as you say. I will go with you, indeed I will.” 

“Very well, then, come on.” 

Ele led ther along the long passage until they came 
tc a door. He took a key from his pocket and in- 
serting it in the door, opened it. Then he led her 
acress a room to another door through which they 
passed. Then they ascended a flight of stairs anid en- 
tered another room that was furnished just like the 
one in which she had been previously imprisoned. 
And but for its being larger, she would have thought 
tha't she was in the same room. 

“Now, Viola, my darling,’ he said, after fastening 


134 


the door. “I am pleased to see you. I had giver: 
you up for dead. But I find you still in the land of 
the living and as pretty as ever; aye, as a picture.” 

She made no answer. She simply sat with her 
hands covering her face, a picture of heart-broken de- 
spair. ; 

“You see, my darling,” he said, going up to her 
and laying ‘his hand caressingly on her shoulder. 
“That I love you is no mistake. Why not accept my 
love? There is no use of kicking against fate. I have 
you in my power. Why don’t you surrender?” 

Why, indeed? She realized that it was useless to 
resist him longer. It seemed as if fate was against her 
—that it was ordained that she should be this man’s 
wife. She shuddered at the thought of it. But she 
saw no way to escape him. She had been so hopeful 
that through the efforts of Mrs. Smith she would be 
reunited with her loved ones. ‘But now the good 
woman was a prisoner, and her last hope was shat- 
tered. Why not end it all—as she could not die—by 
marrying this man. Probably he would not molest 
her further, after she was his, and then she could go 
home to her people, explain it all, and afterwards lay 
down and die. The thought kept growing upon her 
until she decided to act upon it. So when Arnold put 
his hand upon her shoulder, she did not shrink from 
him. He noticed this, and the thought that she was 
about to give in sent the blood flowing ‘through his 
veins like molten metal. 

“Oh, my darling! My sweet love. Why don’t you 
be my wife?” he asked, passionately clasping her to 
his throbing heart, and pouring a flood of kisses on 
her ‘hair, cheeks andi lips. “TI love you, Viola. No 
man would do any more for you than I. My love for 


135 


you is honorable and honest. I will make you the 
best kinld of a husband simply because I adore you. 
Be my wife, Viola, be my wife!” 

She lay passively against ‘his breast, neither repuls- 
ing nor responding’ 'to ‘this caresses. Her whole soul 
revolted at the idea of a union with this man, who 
was a thief and a murderer in intent, if not in reality. 
But that was the only way out of the difficulty. As 
she lay in his arms the face of ‘her first love arose be- 
fore her, and with a bitter sob she released herself. 

“Good-bye, Bertram,” she said, in an agony of de- 
spair. “Good-bye. We were never made for each 
other. We must part now and forever. Henceforth 
our ways lay apart.” | 

“What do you mean?” began the villain, his face 
lighting up with ‘hope. “Do you mean that you will 
consent?” 

“Yes,” she said, ina voice choked with anguish, “I 
will be your wife.” 


136 
CHAR TTR: XX Ts 
Viola Consents—Arnold Delighted. 


The man could scarcely believe the evidence of his 
ears. Had this determined, self-willed girl consented 
to be his wife? He could not understand it. He had 
expected to frighten her into marriage at the muzzle 
of his pistol. But now of her own free will she had 
consented. 

He was almost wild with delight. He strained her 
to his breast, and almost smothered her with kisses. 
When ‘his passion halid somewhat subsided, he said: 

“Viola, dearest, you must not think I am too bad. 
Everything is fair in love and war, you know.” 

“Not too bad! A man that will plan robbery. A 
leader of a gang of robbers. A counterfeiter and not 
too bad!” These thoughts shot through her brain 
like lightning, but she refrained from uttering them, 
and simply asked: 

“You'll give me a little time before you—that is, 
before we do this thing?” 

His face fell. Time! What did she want with 
time? Did she want to think of her situation, and 
then change her mind? Or worse, was she expecting 
aid from the outside? Both of these thoughts were 
rather unpleasant, and he dietermined to ‘have the 
thing over as soon as possible. 

“T will give you until to-morrow night. At ten 
o’clock I will have a minister here. How does that 
suit?” 

“Oh! thank you, thank you.” That suits very 
well,” said the poor girl, glad of that little respite 
before her terrible ordeal. 

“Anid ‘there is something else,” she continued. 


137 


“After we are married you will not molest me—that 
you will not be troubled very much to go your way 
and allow me to go mine.”’ 

“Oh! Certainly not. All 1 want is to possess you 
—to know that you are mine,” he replied, quite wil- 
ling that she should make terms now, but deterniined 
that he should take the reins in ‘his own hands when 
they were married. 

“Thank you,” said the girl. ““Now leave me, if you 
please.” And he did so. 


We must now take a look at one whom we have 
almost forgotten in our interest in the fortunes and 
misfortunes of our heroine. It was weeks after Bes- 
sie’s rescue that she was able to be up and about. 
When she finally recovered she realized the necessity 
of finding employment. After days of discouraging 
failures she finally obtained employment as saleslady 
in one of the big department stores at the drygoods 
counter. She became encouraged at this and worked 
steadily in the place without any mishap for three 
months. In the meantime Bessie had taken up her 
abode in another portion of the city with a kind- 
hearted, motherly lady, and she was beginning to feel 
almost happy. Late one afternoon, when she was 
sitting on the piazza of the cottage, enjoying the cool 
breeze blowing from the river and watching the sun- 
set, a carriage ‘drove up to the house next to her. 
She would simply ‘have given it a passing glance if it 
were not for the sight of someone whom she 
thought she recognized sitting within. The face of 
the person was turned in another direction, so that 


138 


he did not see her. When the carriage stopped he 
stepped out. Bessie looked more closely and grew 
pale to the lips, gave a gasp, and! springing to her 
feet dodged behind a honeysuckle vine. As the 
man turned his face toward her, she recognized the 
face of the person as that of her husbanid. He did 
not stop, but passed hastily up the steps and rang the 
bell. The door was opened and he passed in. Bessie 
wondered what he wanted there. She knew that that 
was the home of a minister, and she could not think 
what he wanted with one except—and at once she 
thought of what he had told her about his love for 
another young girl came to her, and she felt she 
almost knew that he had come to engage a minister 
to perform the ceremony. She did not know 
what course to pursue. Only one thought forced 
itself into her excited brain—she must save the girl. 
But how? Should she go to the police? She saw 
that it would be useless. If they were to ask her how 
she knew he was going to marry, what could she tell 
them? So deeply was she thinking that she did not 
realize the flight of time until she heard that well- 
known voice say to the minister, who had followed 
him out on the piazza: 

“At half-past nine the carriage will be here. At 
half-past nine, sure.”’ 

“Very well, sir. I shall be ready,’ came the an- 
swer. 

‘“Half-past nine! Half-past nine! Hark!’ 

The clock is chiming nine now. She has only half 
an hour in which to think. What should she do? 
What could’she do? For fully ten minutes she stood 
still, trying to think of some way to save the girl. 
Like an inspiration came a plan. And darting in the 


139 


hall she flew up the stairs like a flash, and soon re- 
turned, wearing a black dress and veil. Taking a 
dark hat from the rack she ran down the steps and 
opened the gate just as the hack drove up to the 
next door. At the same momen't an old man came 
along the sidewalk going in the opposite direction. 
He stopped and gave her a scrutinizing glance and 
turned and looked at the vehicle, and without a word 
passed on his way. Bessie was annoyed at the man’s 
curious actions, and waited ito see him out of sight. 
The man was evidently not thinking of her, for he 
crossed the street and disappeared around the corner. 
Then Bessie closed the gate softly and gliding up to 
the hack like a shadow, 'disappeared under it. The 
next moment the minister came down the steps and 
entered the carriage, and they were all whirled 
swiftly away. 


140 
CHAPTER Saxe 
Bessie’s Ride. 


One could imagine the flurry Bessie was in, and 
her many thoughts. 

Away went the hack, flying over the hard asphalt 
streets like the wind. But Bessie, curled up among 
the springs, clung to them with all the tenacity of life 
and death. She did not know in which direction they 
were going, but she knew by the scarcity of lamps 
and by the balmy breeze that they were on the coun- 
try road, somewhere near the river. After about 
half an hour’s ride they stopped, and she, from her 
hiding place, saw the minister get out and start to- 
ward the house. She just had time to drop down in 
the road when the ‘driver cracked this whip and the 
carriage dashed off. She lay curled up on the ground 
and saw the minister go up to the door and knock, 
and after a few moments he was admitted. By the 
dim light in the room she recognized the person who 
admitted him as‘her husband. Then'she arose to her 
feet and stood looking at the house in perplexity. 
What should she do? 

She did not see a figure standing behind a tree 
about twenty feet from her, gazing at her with an 
eager light in his eyes. She walked swiftly up to the 
house, hoping that fate would throw some oppor- 
tunity in her way by which she could enter the house. 
The figure behind the tree stepped from his hiding 
place and’ noiselessly glided’ after her. She walked 
around the house until she came to the ‘back door. 
All at once it opened, and she ‘had just time enough 
to dodge behind the corner when she saw an old 
woman, almost bent double, with a repulsive-looking 


I4I 


face, come out of the door, down the steps and hob- 
ble toward the stable. 

Bessie’s heart beat with joy as she noticed that the 
woman did not lock the door. A's soon as the woman 
disappeared she came from her place of concealment 
and approached the door. The unseen figure all the 
time kept the same distance from her. She put her 
hand on the knob and turnedit. The door flew open 

and she stepped across the threshold. Before she 
could close the door a sudden gust of wind blew out 
the light and she was in total darkness. She closed 
the door however, and began feeling her way toward 
the place where she had last seen another door. She 
found it and opening it passed through. She stopped 
still and listened, and after a moment the sound of 
voices was borne to her ears from a room on the left. 
Looking up the passage from whence the voices came 
she saw a single ray of light shooting out from a key- 
hole. Eagerly.she went toward it, and reaching the 
door she knelt by the side of the keyhole and listened. 


Poor Viola, when she was left alone stood where 
she was for twenty minutes at least. Finally, with a 
weary sigh, she cast herself down upon the iron cot. 
Not to weep. Oh, no! she was past weeping, poor 
girl. But to think. Lying there, she began to think 
over her past life, from the time she left school, a 
happy, hopeful girl. How, although poor, she was 
free from care. These were her every thought until 
the first blow in the form of her father’s death came. 
Then how happy she had been working for her poor, 
invalid mother. Then she thought of the time when 


142 


she had first met Bertram Heathcourt. How bright 
and beautiful her life had been. And all the time her 
real trouble was forming in a dark cloud above her 
head, ready to burst and overwhelm her. Why had 
they ever met? Why? Why? What had it ever 
brought her beyond that little dream of happiness? 
And now—Heaven help her—she was about to be 
united to this man—united for life. The very thought 
of it was the embodiment of everything loathsome 
and repugnant. What was her life worth now? 
Nothing—absolutely nothing! What hope had she 
of ever being happy again? None. 

With a miserable moan of heartache she turned on 
her pillow and ‘thhad: soon forgotten her troubles in a 
deep, dreamless sleep. 

The next day passed as miserably as the night. 
About ten o’clock the old woman came to bring her 
breakfast. Viola’s head was resting on her hand, 
and as the woman turned to go Viola noticed that 
the woman was looking at ‘her in a very peculiar man- 
ner. Following the direction of her eyes she saw that 
she was looking at the ‘diamond ring on her finger. 
A faint ray of hope dawned in her heart as she 
thought that probably this woman could be bribed 
into releasing her. 

She arose and approached! the woman. 

“You were looking at my ring?” she asked. 

“Who said sor” 

“No one. Only I thought you liked it, and would 
like to have it.” 

The woman’s eyes glittered avariciously, but she 
did not reply. 

“Would you like to have it?” 

“Mebbe so.” 


143 

“Well, if you will release me,”’ she said, eagerly, “I 
will give it to you.” 

But to this the woman gave no answer. 

“Tf that is not enough,” she continued, her face 
flushing with ‘hope, as she saw the woman’s silence, 
and thought she might be won over to her side “I 
will add this ‘to it,” going down in her pocket and 
pulling out her watch. And when I get home I will 
give you five hundred dollars besides.” 

The woman smiled a sarcastic smile as she said: 

“Tt ain’t no use, miss. I know that you haven’t 
got that much to your name. Mr. Arnold said so. 
He said you was a poor lacemaker, and if you is, ‘how 
is yer going to give me five hundred dollars?” 

Viola’s heart sank, and tears of disappointment 
started to her eyes. 

“Indeed, I am rich, and I will do as I say. I have 
just been adopted by rich people, and if you release 
me they will remunerate you.” 

“T don’t believe a word on it. Say, miss, if they’re 
so rich, why don’t they do somethin’ about findin’ 
you? I know there’s detectives ’nough in Washin’ton 
to find a needle in a haystack. Why hasn’t they 
found you, eh?” 

Viola saw that the woman was not to be convinced 
anid with a last wail of despair, cried: 

“Oh! My good woman, for pity’s sake, for 
Heaven’s sake, release me. Surely you could not 
stand by quietly and see one of your own sex in sore 
trouble and not come to her assistance. No woman 
could ‘do that.” 

“T am sorry, miss, but I can’t do you no good. 
Why, you doesn’t know nothin’. Mr, Arnold would 
kill me if I was to loose you. I couldn’t think o’ 


144 


such a thing. Not by no manner of means,” said the 
old woman, earnestly. After which she went out and 
closed and locked the door. 

The hands of Viola’s watch pointed to ten o'clock. 
Viola, paler than usual, heard the noise of a carriage 
drive up to the door of the house. Ina few minutes 
the minister entered, preceded by Arnold Campbell, 
who was in his most factitious mood. 

“Well, my dear, you see we are on time and have 
not been guilty of causing you what every woman 
hates—under the circumstances—to be kept waiting. 
Are you ready, my love?” 

Without a word she arose and put the tips of her 
fingers on his arm, and the ceremony began, which 
progressed very nicely until the clergyman asked: 

“If there be any one present who can give reason 
why this couple should not be united, let them speak 
now, or hereafter forever ‘hold your peace.”’ 

The would-be bridegroom involuntarily glanced 
around, but no one having spoken, the minister con- 
tinued’: Arnold Campbell, he proceeded, “will you 
have this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, 
etc?” “IT will,” he answered. “Viola Dunkirk, will you 
have this man to be your wedded husband, etc?” “I 
will,’ she said faintly. But imagination leads us to 
believe that she said “high hill.” 

“T pronounce you’ — 

“Hold on! Stop! Great Heavens! I object to 
this marriage. It is nothing more nor less than a 
sacrilege.” 


T45 
CEOS PIPE Rex oye 
Arnold Attempts Bigamy—Wife Objects. 


The objection to the marriage fell upon the trio 
like an exploding bomb, and the effect upon each 
was different. The minister with surprise and annoy- 
ance. Viola with hope and joy. Arnold Campbell 
with—well, no one knows what the emotion or emo- 
tions with which he gazed at that slim, pale figure 
standing in the doorway, pointing her finger at him 
in condemnation, and lifting a pair of big accusing 
eyes at him—the figure of his wronged wife, Bessie. 
Had he been confronted by a ghost he could not 
have been paler or more rigid. 

“Bessie! Alive!” was all that he could say. 

“TI pronounce this marriage a sacrilege, and forbid 
it to proceed any further.” 

“Why, my dear woman?” asked ‘the minister, seri- 
ously. 

“Because that man has a wife living.” 

“It’s a lie!” gulped the baffled villain. 

“Has a wife living?” said the minister. “That is a 
serious matter. How do you know he has a wife 
living?” 

“Because I am his wife.” 

The minister frowned as the words rang out clear 
anid: firm. | 

Viola uttered a glad cry and burst into tears of joy. 

Arnold stood pale and still as a statue. He could 
not utter a word. His tongue seemed paralyzed. 

“Can you prove what you say, my good woman? 
Have you a certificate?” 


Bessie faltered for a moment. In her previous 
excitement she had forgotten all about the certificate 


146 


of marriage, the only proof that would be accepted 
to verify her statement. 

“He is my husband, sir,’’ said she, falteringly, “and 
he has my marriage certificate.” 

Arnold, who had witnessed his victim slowly slip- 
ping through his fingers, in a paroxysm of rage and 
hate, suddenly brightened up. 

“That woman must be mad,” he said. “I have 
seen her often enough, but never had anything to do 
with her. You see, she cannot prove what she says 
fOpe trie. 

“It is true,” said Bessie. “Oh, sir! don’t let that 
wicked man wrong this lovely young girl. He can- 
not marry her. I am his wife.” 

“Ha! Hal!’ he laughed jeeringly. “You cannot 
prove anything.” 

“Can you prove that you are this man’s lawfully 
wedded wife, my good woman?” again asked the 
minister. | 

“No, sir. I can only give you my word.” 

“T can prove that she’s his wife, if she cannot,” 
came from the doorway, and they again wheeled 
about to face a newcomer. 

He was a man of seemingly fifty years old, medium 
height and rather stout. Huis hair and beard were 
long anid gray. On his nose rested a pair of glasses, 
and he carried a heavy cane in his ‘hand. Bessie 
recognized him in spite of his glasses as the same 
man she ‘thad passed at her gate before leaving home. 

Arnold looked at him menacingly and said: 

“Who are you, you old ‘duffer?”’ 

“T am,’ said the man, ina muffled voice, “the 
avenger of this (pointing to Bessie) young girl’s 
sufferings and wrongs.” 


147 


“Well, sir,” said the minister, “are you prepared to 
prove that this young woman is the wife of this young 
man?”’ 

SVieS-* Sites 

“Well, where is your proof, sir?” 

“There it is,” going into his pocket and bringing 
out a folded paper. “Here is Mrs. Campbells mar- 
arge certificate.” ; 

Bessie uttered a glad cry as she caught sight of 
that precious document, and sprang eagerly forward, 
taking it from him and kissed it, and pressed it to 
her bosom, while tears flowed freely from her eyes. 

Campbell, on realizing that he had been foiled, 
sprang forward with a cry like that of a wounded 
animal and clutched the old ‘man by the throat. He 
expected to ‘have a picnic in throttling the old man, 
but it seemed as if the old man objected to taking a 
part in the feast, for with a quick motion of his mus- 
cular arm he threw off Arnold’s grasp and catching 
him by the collar he shook him until his teeth chat- 
tered. The old man seemed well preserved, andi his 
joints very firm, as he danced around like a whirl- 
wind. With a quick sweep of his feet, he tripped 
Arnold’s legs from under him, and before the baffled 
villain realized what had happened, he found his 
wrists securely encircled by a pair of steel ‘“‘darbies.” 

“Who are you, man?” gasped Arnold. 

“Who am I?” quizzically echoed the old man. 

“Yes, who are you?) What right have you to com- 
mit this outrage?” 

“By the right of the law,” sternly. “Man, I am 
Dick Turpin, the detective.” 

With a groan the prostrate villain closed his eyes. 
He had fainted outright. 


148 


Turning to the wondering lookers on the man 
said: 

“You would like to know how I came in possession 
of Mrs. Campbell’s’ marriage certificate. Well, it 
can be told in a few words. One night I thad occa- 
sion to go to a wharf, as a gang of river pirates were 
becoming very troublesome. While standing on the 
pier in one of the unused freight houses, waiting for 
some sign of the pirates, I saw this young lady come 
onto the wharf. I was curious to see what she in- 
tended to do. At first I thought she contemplated 
suicide, but after she had! been waiting quite a time, 
I changed my mind. So busily engaged in watching 
her that I did not see the approach of another party 
until that whelp had struck her to the water. By 
a flash of lightning that broke upon the scene at the 
same time I recognized both parties. So horrified was 
I that I could not repress a groan as I saw her dis- 
appear over the side of the pier. That scoundrel must 
have heard it, for he turned and fled from the place 
as if pursued by a legion of fiends. I came to the side 
of the pier, hoping to see some sign of the girl. After 
a moment I heard her call for help and I soon had 
her safe ashore. I carried her to the house of an old 
colored man, to whom I had once rendered service, 
and I knew that he would protect ‘her with his life. 
The next day when I called to see her she was sick, 
but the old negro came to me and handed me a par- 
cel, saying that he had gone down to his boat, which 
lay under the pier, that morning, and had found the 
parcel. He wanted me to see whom it was for, as he 
could not read, so that he might give it to the 
owner. I took charge of it and instructed the man 
not to say anything about it. I opened the parcel, 


149 


and found that it was a marriage certificate. I re- 
solved to keep it, as it would enable me to spring a 
trap on the villain when he least expected it. Every- 
thing went well until to-night, when I met this young 
lady at ‘her gate. I recognized her and seeing the 
carriage standing so close by, I thought there was 
something wrong. So I passed on and crossing the 
street, hid behind a tree and saw her crawl among 
the springs of the vehicle. It happened that the car- 
riage passed by me, and I had no trouble in springing 
up behind it, and we all rode out together. The rest 
you know.” 


150 
CHAPTER XXYV. 


Villain Pleads For Mercy. 


By this time Arnold had regained consciousness 
and asthe realized that his race was run, he began to 
whine for mercy, but it ‘had no effect on the stony- 
hearted detective. 

After a while Viola spoke. 

“Oh, sir, that man has made a good woman, who 
was with me, a prisoner. Make him tell you where 
she is, -and release her.” 

That was not hard to do. Arnold seemed, on ac- 
count of his defeat, to be all down and out, and 
readily told where she was. Soon Mrs. Smith was 
clasped in the arms of her friends. 

When they had become quiet the detective 
stepped out and gave a shrill whistle. In an instant 
a man appeared. 

“Hurry to town, Fitch,” said the detective, “and 
get the patrol wagon.” 

In an incredibly short space of time the patrol 
wagon arrived. | 

“Well,” said the detective, ‘we are all here and as 
our business is completed here, we might as well va- 
Cater 

They all reached the city safely, and by the request 
of the detective, all save the minister remained in 
quarters prepared by him. He had a hard time to 
persuade Viola to remain overnight. 

“IT cannot remain,” she said. ‘‘My father and 
mother are anxious about me, and besides’ — 

She did not finish, but a deep flush completed the 
statement. ! 


151 


“Oh! He is all right,” said tthe detective, in his 
bluff, ‘hearty manner. “You need have no fear on 
that score.” 

“But,” she said, shyly, dropping her eyes. “You 
do not understand that he is to be married to that 
woman to-morrow, and I must ‘try and prevent that.”’ 

“You need not be uneasy,” said Mr. Turpin. “I 
will attend to thing's all right, and besides, if I did 
not it would be just the same. The engagement be- 
tween them is off. I want to see you with rosy cheeks 
when I come in the morning. You are very pale 
now.” 

He did not know that it was a rush of happiness 
that had made her pale, and what a struggle she had 
to keep from fainting outright from excess of joy. 


Bertram Heathcourt, in spite of the blight that had 
fallen upon him, was happier as he rang the doorbell 
of the great banker, Mr. Quimby, on the succeeding 
morning, than he had been for months. As soon as 
he was admitted he inquired for the banker. Mr. 
Quimby was looking very ill. His steps were grow- 
ing feeble and he was becoming morose and 
thoughtful, in strong contrast with his once buoyant 
step and hearty, jolly air. Although he had no news 
for Bertram, that did not quench the ardor of his 
hopefulness. After the usual greeting, Bertram con- 
fided ‘his secret to the old banker and you may be 
sure that the old gentleman was as pleased as he was 
surprised. He heartily sympathized with the young 
man and made.wp his minid that he would redouble 
his efforts to find his daughter. 


152 


Bertram was very hopeful that his lost love would 
be restored to him. Not so with the banker. He 
had begun to lose all patience with the detective. 
The man had had the case long enough to bring it to 
a successful issue. Instead! of which he had not even 
put in an appearance. So he and Bertram decided 
to go and see him this morning, and if he had' made 
no progress on the case, to take it from him. They 
found the detective enveloped in a pile of papers, as 
usual. He greeted the gentlemen cordially, and 
after exchanging greetings, took from his pocket a 
cigar case and offered its contents to the gentlemen. 

“T did not come here,” said Mr. Quimby, testily, 
“to indulge in luxuries. I want to know what you’ve 
done in the case you’ve had so long?” 

There was a twinkle in the gray eyes of the detec- 
tive, as he said: 

“Oh, yes! The case. By Jove!” 

Mr. Ourmby’s brow darkened. 

“Is it possible that you have forgotten all about it? 
What kind of a man are you? You’ve had the case 
five or six days, and promised to let me hear from 
you soon and now you've actually forgotten all 
about it.” 

The detective could hardly keep from laughing 
outright as he watched the exasperated old man 
walking up and down the floor. 

“The fact is, Mr. Quimby, business has been so 
brisk tthat’’— 

“Brisk fiddlesticks!” said the old man, angrily. “I 
asked you plainly whether you were able to under- 
take the case, and you said you were. If you were 
too busy, why did you not say so and I could! have 
engaged someone else, and thus saved valuable time. 
“T’ll have you discharged from the force, sir!” 


153 


“Well, Mr. Quimby,” said Turpin, his manner 
changing. “I have not wasted valuable time, and if 
you will call here at two o’clock I will show you that 
I have not.” 

The old man wended his way home disconsolate 
enough. Not so with young Heathcourt. His heart 
beat high with hope. 


154 
XXVI. 


A Happy Meeting. 


Love had sharpened Bertram’s glance, and he had 
noticed something in the detective’s eye, unnoticed 
by the banker, that made him think that the detec- 
tive had not been altogether unsuccessful. And for 
that reason he was very hopeful in consequence. 

That afternoon about one o'clock Mr. Turpin went 
to the place where ‘he had left the women. He soon 
had them transferred to his office. At two o'clock 
sharp the banker and Heathcourt entered. The two 
women were behind the screen, and as she heard the 
old man ask: ‘Well, now, what progress have you 
made toward finding my daughter?” she could hardly 
refrain from running out and kissing him. 

“IT find that your daughter disappeared on the 
ninth instant.” 

“Well, everybody in the city knows that.” 

“Yes; but everybody doesn’t know what became of 
ete. 

At this instant the office boy entered and handed 
the detective a despatch. 

The detective, who had been standing, on reading 
it turned white as a corpse, and’ dropped toward his 
chair. Falling into it he covered! his face with his 
hands. The two men looked on in wonder. 

“Are you ill, Mr. Turpin?” asked the banker, anx- 
iously, and this voice took on its natural gentleness, 
in strange contrast to its former sharpness. 

In answer the detective handed him the dispatch. 
It read: 

“Your prisoner has escaped justice. When I went 
my rounds I found him hanging from the bars of his 


155 


cell with a silk handkerchief around his neck. He is 
dead. 
“Crowley, 
“Warden of the Fourth District Jail.” 

The banker read the telegram and looked at the 
man in surprise. It seemed as if a prisoner of his had 
committed suicide, but there was nothing in that to 
have such an effect upon any man. It did indeed 
seem strange. Here was a man who was as bold and 
fearless as a lion, who daily came in contact with 
criminals of the worst sort. Here he was trembling 
like an aspen and as weak as a child, at ‘having re- 
ceived the news of a villain’s suicide. What didi it 
mean? What could it mean? 

The detective partially recovered his self-control, 
and said: 

“Mr. Quimby, I will not quiz you any further. I 
will tell you all that I have accomplished.” 

And he told the banker all that had happened from 
the time that the case had been given to him for in- 
vestigation. 

“And you really know my daughter’s where- 
abouts?” cried the banker, joyfully, while the young 
man began to tremble with excitement. 

~ “Yes; she is in ‘this city; in this nerghborhood; in 
this house; this very room.” 

Both men sprang to their feet as Viola, pale, but 
with a glad light in her eyes, came from behind the 
screen, followed ‘by Bessie. 

Here the curtain closes on the meeting of father 
and daughter, and between lovers. Suffice it to say 
that explanations followed, and the crooked path was 
made straight, the rough way smoother. 

When everything had become partially quiet after 


156 


the first excitement of the meeting, the detective 
found himself confronted with the most trying ordeal 
of his life. 

Mrs. Smith had confided to ‘him her secret, and 
now the denouement was in order. He arose, and 
making a vigorous effort to clear this throat, said: 

“Mr. Heathcourt, do you ever remember having 
seen your mother?’ Do you know what she was 
ltker” 

The young man’s face showed a blush, but he an- 
swered bravely: 

“No, sir; I do not. My mother was very unfor- 
tunate, and we were separated before I was large 
enough to remember her.” 

“Have you ever heard of her? Do you know what- 
ever became of her?” 

“Pardon me, Mr. Turpin,” said Bertram, again 
blushing, but speaking with dignity. “I would rather 
not speak of my poor mother. As I said before, she 
was very unfortunate, and as she is dead, I shall hold 
her memory sacred from the intrusion of strangers.” 

“Dead!” said the detective, in a peculiar way. 
“How do you know she is dead? Have you any evi- 
dence of her death?” 

Bertram ‘turned pale, anid gave the man a keen 
glance. 

“No, I have no evidence beyond my uncle’s dying 
statement. He said that she was dead.” 

“Has it ever occurred to you that he might have 
been mistaken about her ‘death?’ asked the man, with 
the same mysterious look. “Such things have hap- 
pened.” 

His manner rather 'than his words struck on the 
young man strangely, and he arose to his feet now, 
his suspicions fully aroused. 


157 


“Man, you know something, and are afraid to 
speak of it. What is it?” 

“IT thought probably your mother may be alive 
and wishes to see you, and” — 

“What do you mean? If you know anything why 
don’t you tell it?” 

“What would you think if your mother were to 
walk out on this floor alive and well? What would 
you think?” 

“Great God!” he muttered. “What is it you are 
saying? For Heaven’s sake, tell me. Do you know 
anything of my mother? My mother alive! And we 
reunited! after twenty-five years of separation! You 
must be mad! And yet—do you know anything of 
her? Is she alive?’ 

" There was a long pause, and then ‘the detective 
answered solemnly: 

“She is alive and well, and waiting to clasp you to 
her bosom.” 

Bertram stood stock still. His face was almost 
ashen in its paleness. His arms were folded across 
his heaving bosom. After a silence, during which 
time he could ‘hear his own heart beat, yet standing 
as firm and steady asa marble statue, he said, almost 
in a whisper: 

“Alive! Alive! My poor, wronged mother alive! 
Oh, God! I thank Thee with my whole soul. Where 
isshe? Take me to her!” 

And for the first time while she was present he 
seemed to have forgotten all about Viola—forgot 
her very existence. 

The detective stepped back to the screen and 
moved it aside, and there, sitting on a lounge, witha 
happy, angelic light in her eyes, an expectant blush 


158 


on her face, was the almost strange, ‘but dearly loved 
mother. The next instant they were clasped in each 
other’s arms. Mother and son were reunited. 


159 
CHAPTER XXVII. 


Excitement Over. 


The excitement was all over. Everything had 
been proven to the satisfaction of all parties. The 
natural instincts of Bertram’s heart had claimed this 
woman for ‘his mother and besides ‘that, there was 
found around her neck an old gold necklace with the 
miniature of Doris Heathcourt and her husband, 
given toj her by him when they were a young and 
happy couple. On her finger she still wore her wed- 
ding ring, upon the inside of which was engraved: 
“From F. to D., June 14th, 1859.” 

A month had elapsed since the events narrated in 
the previous chapter. Bessie was living with Viola 
as companion. Viola had returned to ‘her father and 
mother at home and Bertram had taken his mother 
home tothe Park. Bertram, with all the impetuosity 
of a young lover, had) told the banker that he must 
have Viola for his wife immediately. Viola and the 
old gentleman had remonstrated and tried to induce 
the young man to ‘be patient, but all in vain. Rea- 
soning was not one of his prominent qualities where 
his love was concerned. They had spoken of prepara- 
tions for the trousseau, and other things prepara- 
tory to the marriage. Bertram had decided and de- 
clared that he did not want any preparations made, 
nor a great “show” of his marriage. He said also 
that his mother was very lonely and that they must 
consent for her sake. 

Viola ‘had shown Bertram that she had a will of 
her own by positively refusing to marry him immedi- 
ately. For she had said with great dignity that it 
was the duty of the gentleman to permit the young 


160 


lady to name the day, and not to force her into a mar- 
riage before she was ready. With a twinkle in her 
eyes, she said: 

“If your mother is very lonely, I will consent to 
become your wife in a month.” 

The young man, seeing how determined she was, 
had to be satisfied. The conclusion reached caused 
Bertram 'to send workingmen by the score to the 
Park, where preparations were soon ready for the 
great event. 

Finally the auspicious day arrived. The morning 
dawned, clear, bright and pleasant. At ten o’clock 
the ceremony was to take place. 

Viola was up with the lark and go'ng to the win- 
dow threw it up. With smiles of joy on her beautiful 
face, uplifted toward Heaven, she clasped her hands 
and gave thanks ta God that He had blessed her in 
this, the one hope of her life. She then dressed and 
calling for her horse took a brisk gallop before break- 
fast. Half-past nine finds her surrounded by a bevy 
of pretty girls, all her most intimate friends. They 
are laughing and chatting gayly. Just then Mrs. 
Ouimby put her head in at the door and said she 
never gazed upon a more picturesque scene. 

Viola noticed the wistful look in her eyes, and she 
knew that the kind-hearted old lady wanted to spend 
the last few minutes with the girl who was as dear to 
her as her own child. 

So Viola requested them to let her have a few 
words with her, and after giving her an affectionate 
kiss they all filed out of the room. Soon the sound 
of carriage wheels reached their ears and Mrs. 
Quimby arises and says: 

“Well, my daughter, you are about to leave me. 


161 


Have I been good to you? Have you been happy 
herer”’ 

“How can you ask such a question?’ inquired 
Viola, her eyes filling with reproachful tears. ‘I 
could not have been thappier were you my own 
mother. I could not have loved you more.” 

“My darling daughter!’ ardently exclaimed the 
dear lady. And she put her hands on the girt’s head 
and by the closing of her eyes and the movements oi 
her lips, Viola knew that she was giving her a bless- 
ing. 

The bridal party was assembled. The few invited 
friends are all standing in pretty groups around the 
principals. 

“They make a very handsome couple.” So says 
everyone. 

Bertram wore the conventional groom costume, 
and the never looked handsomer or happier. Viola 
was the subject of admiration. Her dress was a tri- 
umph of the modiste’s art. It was truly exquisite in 
its absolute simplicity. It was made of white satin, 
with draperies of white silk. The decollette corsage 
was finished at the neck with a border of fine white 
French lilacs. She wore a wreathed veil and other 
beautiful trimmings. The only ornament worn by 
her was a necklace consisting of three rows of pearls, 
and in her hand she carried a beautiful bouquet 
of white roses. She carried herself with a grace and 
charm of manner that was indescribable. There was 
not a touch of awkwardness, but an easy self-posses- 
sion, which was as charming as it was unusual in one 
so young. During the hush which had fallen over the 
party, and amidst chants of music from the organ, 
the minister began and completed the ceremony. 


162 


And now Viola Dunkirk was the beloved wife of 
Bertram Heathcourt. 
They drove away amidst a shower of rice and slip- 
pers, the latter being thrown by Mr. Quimby himselt. 
And may they continue to be as happy as now! 


163 
GHAR RE Re xox V LIT 
Bessie Consents. 


As has been stated Bessie had been the companion 
of Viola since the latter’s rescue. All the remon- 
strances of Bessie could not make Viola change her 
decision that after her marriage Bessie should come 
to the Park and continue to live there, and as Bert- 
ram so earnestly voiced 'the sentiment, Bessie con- 
sented. | 

Viola and Bertram both sympathized with the poor 
girl. They knew that she had suffered and they did 
all they could to make her happy. 

The detective, too, seemed to take a great interest 
in the girl. He had advised her to go to her parents 
and tell them all, and he was sure they would forgive 
her and take her back to their hearts. But when he 
had told her to do this, she had shrunk from him as 
if he had cut ‘her with a lash. 

“Oh! no, no! I could never go to them with my 
wrecked life, and then, too, I know that they would 
never forgive me. Never! It will soon be all over. 
Don’t you see that Iam getting thinner and thinner 
every day? Mr. Turpin, I am slowly but surely dy- 
ing.” 

The detective started and exclaimed huskily: 

“For God’s sake, don’t speak so! I cannot bear it. 
If anything of the kind should occur it would kill 
me. I—lI could not bear it. I—” 

And he stopped and turning abruptly, left her 
aionieoe 


* * * K * >K * K 


164 


Two whole months have elapsed since Mrs. Haw- 
thorne heard the confession of her daughter’s sin 
from her own lips. She had been conveyed to her 
room and never left it. Before the expiration of 
three weeks she was a dead’ woman. 

Bertram did not hear the account of her death 
until after the funeral. When he heard of it he went 
to call on Mona to see if he could render any service, 
and found that she had gone. 

She had gone. She had disappeared as effectually 
as if the earth had swallowed her ito its bowels, and 
further search failed to reveal anything of her where- 
abouts. 

Time passed on. If every other person had for- 
gotten Mona, Viola had not. Somehow she could 
not get rid of the impression that she had not seen 
the last of her, and the correctness of the impression 
was proven sooner than she expected. 

One night Bessie had complained of a severe head- 
ache and retired early. Viola, with her usual solici- 
tude, went to Bessie’s room before she retired to her 
own. She took some smelling salts and taking a 
seat ‘beside the head of the sick girl, held the salts to 
her nose and gently stroked her forehead with her 
soft, white hand. 

Under the soothing touches of her soft and exper- 
ienced hand the girl began to feel better, and soon 
dropped to sleep. Viola, seeing the effect of her 
work, gently left the room and retired. But strange 
as it may seem, as soon as Viola had left the room, 
Bessie’s illness seemed to return with redoubled 
force. She tossed on ther pillow for an hour, trying 
to sleep, but could not. Finally she arose, and put- 
ting on a wrapper, began pacing the floor. It seemed 
to have no better effect and in despair Bessie went to 


165 


the window, threw it up, thinking that the cool air 
would make her feel better and refreshed. 

“What was that?” 

She could have sworn that she saw a dark-robed 
figure skulking along in the shrubbery. No, it was 
all a fancy of—no, there it is again, sneaking along as 
if it did not desire to ‘be seen. What did it mean? 
Bessie’s first impulse was to arouse the house, but 
then she thought it might possibly be some servant 
who had been out for a time, and she had no desire 
to cause anyone trouble. She was sure it was a ser- 
vant when she saw the figure turn in towards the 
servants’ rooms and disappear behind the house. So 
she drew her chair beside the window and gave her- 
self up to thought. Presently the clock on the man- 
tel struck one. No sooner hadi the sound died away 
when another sound came to her ears. What was it? 
Nothnig. Her imagination was playing pranks with 
her. 

Hark! There it was again! She was sure she heard 
stealthy footsteps pass her door. She arose softly, 
and going to the door quietly opened it and peeped 
out. 

Yes! There it was, the figure of a woman in black. 

What did it mean? This was not the servants’ 
part of the house and if she was a servant what did 
she want there? Did Bertram have any dishonest 
persons in his employ? What was she doing sneak- 
ing in this portion of the house? 

Impelled by some force stronger than herself she 
noiselessly glided after her. She saw the woman pass 
swiftly along the hall and stop at Viola’s door and 
after trying a few keys in the lock, opened it and 
passed in. Bessie was close at her heels. Viola al- 


166 


ways kept a lamp burning in her room on the center- 
table, and by its light Bessie could see Viola sleeping 
peacefully on her pillow with a smile on her red lips. 
Her golden hair was streaming over the pillow, and 
one hand rested under her head, while the other was 
lying on the coverlet, rivalling it in its whiteness. 
Bessie could also see a woman dressed in mourning, 
with a black veil drawn back from her dark face. Her 
lips were compressed into a cruel smile. The whole 
expression of her face was something terrible to see. 
In her hand Bessie’s eye caught the glitter of some- 
thing she could not see very plainly but instinctively 
she guessed that it wasa dagger. Bessie stood as if 
paralyzed when the full force of the woman’s inten- 
tion dawned upon her. She could not scream. She 
could not move a finger. She looked at the proceed- 
ings of the woman as if fascinated. She saw the 
woman go to the lamp and turn it up full; then she 
saw her return to the side of the bed and gently pull 
back the coverlet and gaze long into the face of the 
sleeping girl, with an expression of fiendish hate on 
her face. Then the woman danced around as if in 
mad dielight at the helplessness of her victim. She 
began to make gestures as if she was talking, explain- 
ing something. Raising her eyes to the ceiling, for 
about fifteen seconds she was quite still. Lowering 
her eyes, she slowly raised her right hand, in which 
eleamed a dagger. And the nex't instant Viola would 
have been in eternity, but before the weapon de- 
scended there came a piercing scream. The spell had 
been broken and springing to the bell cord Bessie 
gave it a violent tug. She had roused the house. 


167 
CHAPFER XXIX. 


Would-Be Murderer Falls To Death. 


The woman turned with a stifled cry of iright and 
fled toward the door. Bessie had to go a little dis- 
tance from the door in order to seize the bell cord, 
and before she could return to it, the woman had 
darted through and toward the staircase. Bessie 
gave chase and so close was she to her that she man- 
aged to catch the shawl from her shoulder. ‘This 
caused the woman to redouble her efforts to escape, 
and she made a spurt forward and began lowering 
her veil. ‘This proved the most disastrous thing she 
could have dione. In lowering her veil it momentarily 
cut off her view ahead. Failing to see the marble 
statue just at the point where she was to turn to de- 
scend the stairs, resulted in her running against it 
with force enough to have killed some people. She 
was simply momentarily checked and started off 
again, but the statue had fallen directly across her 
path, and as she started forward she tripped. Strug- 
gling desperately to regain her equilibrium, she trip- 
ped again, falling headlong down the heavy oak 
stairs, bouncing from step to step, finally landing in a 
heap thirty feet below, with a sickening thud. Bes- 
sie stopped and covered her face with her hands in 
horror. 

The servants began to arrive on the scene half- 
dressed, with terror-stricken faces. 

“What is the trouble?” asked Bertram, who had 
just arrived. “What does it all mean?” 

Bessie was trembling like an aspen, and could not 
speak from horror, 


168 


“Oh! Bessie! For Heaven’s sake, tell us what it 
sau 

Bessie could only groan. 

“Bessie! Bessie! My goodness, what has hap- 
pened?” asked Mrs. Heathcourt, standing behind her 
children in terror. 

“O, my God! She is dead! She is dead!” gasped 
Bessie, at last. 

“What, dead? Just Heaven! Whois dead?” 

For answer Bessie pointed to the place where the 
motionless figure lay. They all looked. 

Bertram and Viola gave one glance, and instinc- 
tively looked into each other’s face, and there they 
read the whole occurrence. 

“Yes she is certainly dead,’ said: one of the men 
servants, who, a little braver than the rest had gone 
and examined her. 

“Poor girl,’ murmured Bertram, mingling his 
tears of sympathy with those of his wife, who was 
already weeping on his shoulder. “Poor, misguided 
Mona!” 

Yes it was Mona, poor girl. Her mother’s death 
seemed to have crazed her and she wandered from 
her home, When she recovered her reason a month 
later she found herself in a hospital in Richmond, Va. 
As soon as she was strong enough to leave it she re- 
solved to go to Washington, D. C., and prosecute the 
one desire that had taken full possession of her entire 
soul—to. revenge herself. She would kill the girl 
who had robbed her of her love. She would kill the 
man whom she had loved too well—whom she had 
loved with a love worthy of a better consideration. 
And lastly, she would kil herself. 

She came to Washington with the result known, 


169 


Bertram, after notifying the authorities, and after 
the inquest had been held over the remains of Mona, 
had instructed the jurors not to give the facts in the 
case to the newspapers. They complied and the jury 
found a verdict that the deceased had met death by 
accidently falling down stairs in the house of Ber- 
tram Heathcourt. 

Bertram ordered the body buried at his expense, 
and placed in a plot in the Clairmount Cemetery, 
near the family vault of the Heathcourts. 


Two years have passed and Bessie is still at the 
Park. She is looking paler and growing thinner 
every day. So much so, in fact, that it has become 
quite noticeable to those with whom she daily came 
in contact. 

Bertram and Viola have advised a change oi 
air and scenery, but she would not hear of it. She 
had also refused to follow the advice of Mr. Turpin, 
and return to her parents, whom he was confident 
would forgive her. It seemed as if she was waiting 
for something. Every day she would look up eagerly 
when the mail arrived, and if there was anything for 
her, after reading it, she would sigh heavily, as if it 
was not from the one she expected. The days flew 
by into weeks, and weeks into months. 

One day the detective drove to the Park with an 
expression of grim determination on his face. He in- 
quired for Bessie, and) when they were alone, in his_ 
quick but earnest manner and without any parleying, 
he began straightway to lay his heart at her feet. 

“It breaks my heart to see you dying by inches 


170 


and nothing being done to save you. Be my wiic. 
and let me shield your life from every storm. I will 
cherish it as the dearest thing ever given into my 
keeping. I love you. I have loved you longer than 
you know. What do you say? Will you be my 
wile?” 

Now Bessie was in sore straits. She did not know 
herself. She felt a strange attraction for this man— 
a feeling of peace and safety in his very presence. She 
liked him well, not to say loved him, and yet how 
dearly she loved the memory of the absent Kent 
Howard. 

It pained her to have discontinued a friendship 
which had been so agreeable. And she told him so. 

“Mr. Turpin,” she said, “I admire you very much. 
I also appreciate the honor you do me, by wishing to 
marry me, after my wrecked life. I do not know 
about love. In justice to you, I will tell you my heart 
as much as I know myself. 

And she told him about the occurrence previous to 
her marriage. Of how much she liked him (Turpin), 
and how dearly she loved Kent, and also told him 
that the hope of seeing Kent Howard once more 
and ‘hearing the words of forgiveness in her ears for 
the wrong she had dione him, was the only thing that 
kept her alive. 

Mr. Turpin, regardless of her love for Kent How- 
ard, continued to press his claim. Finally Bessie con- 
sented, but before the day appointed for the mar- 
riage Bessie died, which was a crushing blow to the 
haughty Mr. Turpin. 


rat 


Five years have elapsed. Two women are standing 
on the broad piazza at the Park admiring the beauti- 
ful sunset. It needs but one glance to tell that they 
are the two Mrs. Heathcourtis. Mrs. Heathcourt, the 
elder,is still beautiful,although her brow is becoming 
wrinkled and her hair gray. Viola is almost the same 
Viola as of old, only she is becoming less fragile look- 
ing. Her superb form has in it now the fulness of 
matronhood, and her cheeks the same glow, her 
eyes the same sparkle as she gazes on the crimson sky 
as they ‘had shown that afternoon on the cliff, when 
she was in such imminent danger. 

Together the two women turned as the sun was 
sinking behind the western horizon,and walked along 
the piazza to the other side of the house, where they 
stopped to gaze at the pretty! picture that their eyes 
beheld. 7 

Seated in an easy chair is Bertram, handsome as 
ever, a tiger-skin rug under his feet, and he is divid- 
ing his attention between an old Virginia cheroot, a 
newspaper and a curly golden head peeping up be- 
tween his knees. 

Mrs. Bertram Heathcourt, while standing quietly 
by, gazing on, ‘bent forward over the back of the chair 
in which was seated her love, tenderly placed her 
arms around his neck and gently pressed a kiss on 
Bertram’s forehead. 

Suddenly the little tot of four summers called out: 

“Mamma! Gamma! Here tums my _ uzzer 
Gamma an’ Gampa Timby!” 

“Yes, yes,’ said Viola, smiling. 

“Bless ‘him,’ said Mrs. Heathcourt, the elder, 
“Bless him! God bless you all, my children!” 

And together they go down the steps to meet the 
newly-arrived party. 


THE END. 


My region is in my sweetheart’s face, 
And these are the boundary lines, I trace: 
North—a forehead fair; 

With pastures of golden hair; 

Her little mouth the sunny south— 

It is the place that I love best— 

Her eyes two sparkling lakes, 

As bright and clear as snow~ flakes, 
Lit by the moon at night—the sun by day; 
The dimples in her cheek and chin 
Are snares which Love has set, 

And I involuntarily have fallen in. 


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